


The Treasure Island Affair

by ssclassof56



Series: Agent Pemberley [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Pirates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:01:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 30,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22564441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssclassof56/pseuds/ssclassof56
Summary: X Marks the Spot, as Thrush, UNCLE, and a notorious thief race to discover buried treasure.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin & Napoleon Solo
Series: Agent Pemberley [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/675776
Comments: 11
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

“You Napoleon Solo?”

Napoleon lifted his gaze from his date, a copper-haired analyst from Section IV, to the man standing behind her. From the cut of his short dark hair and hardwearing suit to the set of his angular jaw and square shoulders, every inch proclaimed his occupation. To flash a badge would be superfluous.

“I could be,” Napoleon answered, cocking his head. “That, ah, all depends on who’s asking.”

The police detective nodded. “You’re him, all right. Just like the lieutenant said you’d be.”

“And how would I be, exactly?”

“Insouciant and insolent,” he replied, the words stumbling heavily off his tongue.

Napoleon’s lips curved. “Are you sure about that?”

“Indubitably. Now come on.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the reception desk. “The lieutenant wants to see you.” 

“Why is that, Sergeant…?” he asked.

“Wynant. And that, pal, is on a need-to-know basis.”

Napoleon picked up his martini. “In other words, your lieutenant didn’t tell you,” he said and took a sip.

“That’s right. And if the lieut’ thinks I don’t need to know, that means you don’t need to know either. Now are you coming quietly, or do I have to disturb the ambiance?”

Napoleon’s dinner date tore a fascinated gaze away from the sergeant. “Perhaps you’d better see what this is about.”

“Yes, perhaps I should.” Napoleon kissed her hand. “Excuse me.”

She pressed her knuckles to her cheek. “When you get your one phone call, do remember my number.”

Napoleon gave her a small salute, then rose from the table and followed the sergeant across the dining room.

A man in a plaid trilby leaned against the wall near the coat check. He dug a sugared peanut from a paper bag and popped it in his mouth, oblivious to the affronted glances of the maître d'. He held out the bag as Napoleon approached. 

Napoleon shook his head with a grimace. “Mallory.”

“Solo.”

“Was this necessary?”

The lieutenant pushed up his brim with one finger, sliding the hat farther back over his light brown hair. “Nope.” His hazel eyes twinkled. “But it was amusing.”

“My partner locked up again?”

“Not by me. If he’s back to cat burgling, he’s doing it in someone else’s borough.” He folded the top of the bag and dropped it into his jacket’s hip pocket. “I’ve got something to show you. I think you’ll be interested.”

Napoleon waited expectantly. “Well?”

“Over at the Gardiner Building. Come on.” He pushed off the wall.

“Now? Couldn’t this wait until morning?”

“Probably.”

Napoleon looked from Mallory’s amusement to the sergeant’s implacability. He raised a finger, and the maître d' appeared at his side. 

“Carl, would you apologize to the lady at my table and tell her that I’ve been called away on business?”

Carl looked apprehensively across the restaurant at the redhead.

“Don’t worry. She won’t make a scene,” Napoleon reassured him.“She’ll extract her pound of flesh later”—he grinned—“in private.” 

After retrieving his overcoat, Napoleon followed Mallory and the sergeant out of the restaurant. An unmarked sedan sat at the curb. “What, no squad car?”

Mallory opened the door and waved Napoleon into the backseat. “Maybe next time.”

The sergeant steered the sedan onto 5th Avenue and headed down to the financial district. When they arrived, the entrance to the venerable Gardiner Trust and Safe Deposit Company was flanked by a small crowd. A ripple of excitement passed through them as the lieutenant let Napoleon out of the backseat. 

“Is he the one?”

“Looks like a jewel thief to me.”

“They sure caught him fast.”

Mallory chuckled and fished peanuts from his pocket as they passed between the onlookers. Inside the lobby, a gaggle of impatient reporters blocked their way. 

“Is this the guy, Lieutenant?”

Mallory looked at Napoleon and shook his head. “Sorry, boys. He’s from one of the insurance companies. What was that mouthful again?”

“The Unified Northern Casualty and Liability Exchange,” Napoleon said.

“They must have made off with some high-class stuff.”

Another reporter elbowed his way to the front. “Yeah, tell us, whose heirlooms got pinched and what were they worth?”

“I’m afraid that information is confidential,” Napoleon replied. 

“All right, all right, you guys. Break it up.” Sergeant Wynant carved a path through the gentlemen of the press. “The lieutenant’ll have a statement for you in a little while.”

An alcove to the left of the lobby was marked Safe Deposits. A massive vault door stood open within it.

“How did he get in?” Napoleon asked as they crossed the lobby.

“The bank uses an outside security firm. The thief was disguised as a night guard. Had the right credentials. Said the usual guy was sick.”

“Was he sick?”

“Yeah, food poisoning,” Mallory said, tossing a peanut into the air and catching it in his mouth.

“Convenient. And easily induced.” Napoleon paused at the vault door. “A Smithson 500 series?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Was the alarm triggered?”

Mallory shook his head. “This was a smooth operator.”

They entered the vault. Dozens of steel and brass doors hung open at wild angles, the metal warped from forced entry. Safe deposit box were strewn about the floor. Napoleon whistled. “You sure the alarm wasn’t triggered?”

“Positive. He had all the time in the world.”

“Then why a smash and grab? He could have taken what he wanted, and no one would have been the wiser.”

“Looks like he wanted us to know he was here.”

“But not whose box he was after.”

“That’s where it really gets interesting.” Mallory slid a gray metal container from a nearby cabinet and set it on the counter.

The lieutenant opened the box. Napoleon’s face scrunched. A scrawl of black marker stretched across the inside of the lid: ‘Thrush.’

“Well, well, well.” Napoleon tilted his head one way, then the other, considering the script from different angles. 

“I knew you’d find it interesting.”

“Oh, very. But I’ve never known Thrush to leave a calling card like this.” He looked at the lieutenant. “Whose box is it?”

Mallory shut the lid with a clank. “Afraid I can’t tell you that. I’ve stuck my neck out pretty far showing you this much.”

“We’re on the same side.”

“Try telling that to my Inspector.” Mallory scratched under the brim of his hat. “Of course, if your agency wanted to take over this case, I’d be obligated to share everything we know.”

Napoleon pulled out his communicator. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“In the meantime, I’ll throw the press boys a bone. ‘We expect an arrest within forty-eight hours.’ The usual spiel.” He funneled a handful of peanuts into his mouth and went back out to the lobby.

Napoleon was closing his communicator when the lieutenant returned, Sergeant Wynant with him. “It’s all set,” the agent said. “My Chief made some calls, and this case is officially an UNCLE affair now.”

Mallory’s hazel eyes were skeptical.

Napoleon held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor. Now about the box.”

“Wynant,” the lieutenant said, “who’s got box 437?”

The sergeant produced a notebook from inside his jacket and flipped it open. “Name’s Truitt.”

Napoleon frowned. “That, ah, wouldn’t happen to be Genny Truitt, would it?”

Wynant looked at the page again. “Ifigenia Truitt,” he pronounced laboriously, “Truitt Island, New York.”

Napoleon smiled ruefully. “Methinks our thief isn’t the only smooth operator around.”

Mallory’s lips twitched. “Good luck on the case, Solo.”

“Thanks,” he replied darkly. “I hope to do the same for you someday.”


	2. Chapter 2

“She is a harmless eccentric,” Illya said. His gaze was fixed on an open folio as he wound through the crowded corridor.

“She calls herself the fourteenth Lady of the Manor.” Napoleon side-stepped a knot of pencil-skirted technicians chatting during the shift change, then gave them a second glance over his shoulder. 

Illya flipped a page. “Charles I did grant them the island in perpetuity.”

“That was three centuries and one Revolution ago. Feudal provinces went out with powdered wigs.”

Illya looked at his partner over the top of his tinted glasses. “Tell that to the Partridges.”

“More crackpots. Exactly my point.”

The door before them hissed open, and they entered Waverly’s office. The chair behind the instrument panel was unoccupied.

“The Partridges are megalomaniacs,” Illya said, taking a seat at the table. “Miss Truitt is a woman with an unusually high interest in her family’s history.”

Napoleon perched on a narrow windowsill. “History? A fireside yarn. At her age, she should’ve outgrown bedtime stories.”

“I would think you’d find a romantic appeal in the whole idea.”

Napoleon’s lips twisted. “A little too romantic.” He raised his brows at Illya’s chuckle. “She doesn’t set your proletarian blood boiling?”

Illya shrugged. “I liked her.”

“You would.”

“And she liked you,” he said, closing the folio and pocketing his glasses. “Very much.”

“It could easily have been you, pal. I had the misfortune to get to shore first.”

Illya shook his head. “I lack a sufficiently piratical air. I also bear no resemblance to Captain Goode’s portrait. For you, on the other hand, it must have been like looking into a mirror.”

“Very funny.” Napoleon peered at his distorted reflection in the brass light fixture beside him. He laid a finger across his top lip and cocked his head from side to side. “Under that mustache and musketeer wig, he could look like almost anyone.”

“Anyone with a mole on his cheek.”

“That was one of those spot things.”

“A mouche.”

“Gesundheit.”

Illya rolled his eyes. “We will settle this when we see it again.”

“Oh, no. Not we.” Napoleon hopped off the sill and smoothed his gray suit jacket. “I wouldn’t go back to that island if you paid me.”

“But that’s precisely what I am doing, Mr. Solo.”

Mr. Waverly stood in the doorway. He handed a printout to a technician hovering beside him and dismissed the man with a nod.

Napoleon adjusted the knot in his tie. “Sir, in this case, I think the, ah, confusion Miss Truitt has about me would interfere with the mission.” 

“Nonsense.” Waverly took his place at the table. “Unless you were unclear in your explanations on your previous encounter.”

“It’s the first time I told someone I wasn’t the reincarnation of a seventeenth century buccaneer,” Napoleon said, dropping into the chair beside his partner, “but I did my best.” 

Waverly looked at his agent from beneath raised brows. “So your powers of persuasion failed to convince her? You must be slipping, Mr. Solo.”

“Uh, well, I…”

Illya’s lips flexed. “In Napoleon’s defense, sir, the lady was hard to dissuade.”

Waverly grunted. “Miss Truitt’s devotion to the island and its history, I grant you, approaches the fanatical. She is, however, the scion of an illustrious family with numerous political and philanthropic ties. If Thrush has an interest in the Truitts, we must find out why and stop them.”

“What about the other boxes?” Napoleon asked. “Surely there are more names that need investigating.”

“Yes, yes. Section III is looking into that. Only one box, however, had that marking.”

Napoleon grimaced. “Could be a trap.”

“Then I suggest you proceed with caution.”

Illya tossed the bow line to the man on the dock, who caught it with large, gnarled hands, then scrambled off the boat to join his partner. Napoleon wiped his fingers on his handkerchief and watched with a perplexed frown as the workman secured the line to a piling. “Crackpots,” he muttered.

Illya considered the grim-faced man’s attire. A loose linen shirt and knee breeches hid his frame, but the calves beneath the woolen hose were thickly muscled. He wore a Monmouth cap over his grizzled hair and leather shoes on his feet. “I will take it over a Thrush jumpsuit any day,” Illya replied. 

“Come on,” the man said brusquely.

A horse and cart waited at the end of the dock. The man climbed onto the driver’s bench, taking his half from the middle. The agents looked at each other and shrugged, then clambered into the back of the cart.

At a flick of the reins, the horse started forward. The dirt road entered the trees and curved sharply, cutting off the view of the dock. The sounds of the shore quickly faded, and all was birdsong and the clopping of hooves and the creaking of the cart.

“Your George Washington once took this road,” Illya said musingly. “He would still recognize it.”

Napoleon clutched the side of the cart as it bounded out of a rut. “He probably lost those wooden teeth around here somewhere. Mine are rattling out of my head.”

The road rose steadily as it wound further into the island. Then the dense woods fell away, and rolling green lawns dotted with the occasional stand of trees spread out to either side of them. Another workman in colonial garb leaned on the handle of his scythe and watched them pass by. Napoleon waved amiably.

“We are here,” Illya said. 

Napoleon craned his neck to follow his partner’s gaze. A two-story house stood on the crest of the hill, stone and symmetrical, the steep, side-gabled roof topped by a chimney at both ends. Generations of Truitts had expanded the house, and a series of rambling additions descended the gentle slope to the rear. The view from the drive, however, remained as it was in the 1680s.

The horse slowed as they approached the front, and the agents hopped off the cart. Before they reached the steps, the door swung inward. A man in a long frock coat trimmed with gold braid stood on the threshold.

“Hello there,” Napoleon said as he climbed the short flight. “Remember us?”

The bewigged man nodded. “Yes, sir. You’re the gentlemen whose boat wrecked on our shoals last year.”

Napoleon aimed a side-long gaze at his partner.

“I was not the one piloting her,” Illya said.

Napoleon cleared his throat. “We’re here to see Miss Truitt.”

“You are expected.” The man stepped back with a slight bow, and the agents entered the house.

Napoleon looked hopefully down the dim, paneled hall which led to the rear wings and relative modernity, then grimaced when the servant indicated a door to their immediate left. 

“In here, please.” 

The drawing room was a time capsule, with cream walls and blue-painted woodwork. Dark beams stretched across the ceiling. 

“I will tell Miss Truitt that you are here,” the servant intoned and closed the door behind him.

Illya moved to the fireplace, which smelled of recent use. Napoleon joined him and admired the sword mounted on the front of the mantel. 

“Uncanny,” Illya said.

Napoleon lifted a reluctant gaze to the portrait. Jolyon Goode looked staid and respectable in a shoulder-length, curled wig, but the roguish gleam in his brown eyes hinted at his piratic profession. Beneath his mustache, his sculpted lips curved with satisfaction. 

Illya looked from the dark blemish at the captain’s jawline to his partner’s face. Napoleon tilted his head away, saying, “This is why you need glasses.”

“Miss Truitt,” the servant announced behind them. Napoleon tensed and turned slowly towards the door. 

“Relax, Jeffers,” a woman advised. It was not a breathless twitter, but low tones tinged with resigned amusement. 

A young woman paused in the doorway, then entered the drawing room, her sylph-like figure moving with a marked degree of elegance. She wore a jersey minidress of Parisian design. Platinum hair swept from her temples into an artful jumble of ringlets at the crown. Her long hazel eyes were wide set, her mouth small, but full-lipped. 

“Honestly, I don’t know where Aunt Genny finds them,” she said when the door had closed.

Napoleon relaxed. “My name is Napoleon Solo,” he said, stepping forward with a suave smile. “My associate and I are from the U.N.C.L.E. We’ve taken over investigation of the robbery.”

The young woman looked from Napoleon to the agent behind him. “Illya Kuryakin,” the Russian said as he moved to his partner’s side. “And you are…?”

“Lisle Truitt. I’m sorry I wasn’t here to take your call. The message said it was about the bank. I hope you’ve caught whoever did it.” 

She sank gracefully onto a dark, squarish armchair and invited them to sit. The settee, high-backed and upholstered in flamestitch embroidery, groaned alarmingly under their weight. 

“We haven’t yet, though we have some leads,” Napoleon responded. “Actually we were hoping to discuss that with your aunt. Can we see her?”

Lisle shook her head. “My aunt is unwell and can’t see anyone right now. But I’ll help you as best I can.”

“Does the name Thrush mean anything to you?” Illya asked.

“Thrush?” Her hazel eyes darted toward the ceiling, then met his blue ones. “No. Should it?”

“It’s a criminal organization,” Napoleon said, drawing her gaze back to him. “We believe they may be involved with the break in.”

“Then they must be very disappointed in our box. It was only old papers. Important to the family but not worth anything to anyone else.”

“Are you positive about that?” Illya asked. “It would be uncharacteristic of Thrush to pursue something without value.”

“Unless they’re interested in colonial New York, I’m afraid they have.”

Illya pulled a folded sheet from his inside pocket. “We have the inventory of the box from the police. It is not very detailed. Can you tell us anything more?”

Lisle shrugged. “Not really. Moldy ledgers and packets of yellow paper. The place is full of them.” She waved her hand at the paneled doors flanking the fireplace. 

Illya rose and walked to the nearest set. He pulled open the doors, revealing shelves of flaking leather spines and sheaves of parchment. “Why bother relocating any of them?”

“Thierry said it all needs a more stable environment, so I moved what seemed to be the oldest.”

“Thierry?” Napoleon asked, a crease between his brows.

“A friend of mine.” She adjusted the drape of yellow jersey across her thighs.

“He told you to move them to the bank?”

“Oh, no. He just said all this should really be in a climate-controlled room. That’s when I remembered about the safe deposit box. I hold a key, so I took as much over there as would fit.”

“Was this before or after the break in here?” Illya asked.

Lisle wet her lips “What do you mean?”

“I mean that these are arranged in a rather haphazard manner. That was not always the case.” He plucked two account books from different shelves and held them together. “These two volumes stood pressed together for many years until they were quite recently and hastily repositioned.”

“Spring cleaning?” she offered brightly, as he returned the volumes.

He smacked dust from his sleeve with his gaze fixed on her. “In October?”

Her smiled faded. “All right, someone did go through this room. We put everything back as best we could.”

“When was this?” Napoleon asked.

“Sometime last Thursday night. Jeffers and his wife found the mess when they came in the next morning.”

“Why didn’t you report this to the police?”

Lisle’s chin rose. “Nothing was taken as far as we could tell. And my aunt isn’t in any condition to have police poking around. Not unless they’re prepared to do it in costume.”

Illya returned to the settee and stood beside it. “What precisely is your aunt’s condition?”

“A broken leg. It has to be held in traction.” She sighed. “As you probably know, my aunt maintains a lifestyle that…commemorates the early history of Truitt Island. Modern medical equipment and a nurse who refuses to consider the merits of leeches were just a little more than she could take. She has to be sedated most of the time.”

“How did she acquire this injury?” Illya asked.

“She fell off the bluffs. They’re on the eastern end of the island. She goes there every morning to see the sunrise. She must have slipped on some loose shale. Mason, one of the servants, found her unconscious on the beach below.”

“And when did this occur?”

“Last Monday.”

Illya caught Napoleon’s eye. “She is fortunate he found her before the tide came in.”

Napoleon frowned. “Were you here when it happened?”

“No, I was in Paris. That’s where I live. I’m a model for a fashion house. One of the estate’s trustees sent me a telegram, and I took the next flight to New York.”

“So Monday Miss Truitt falls,” Napoleon said, ticking the day off on his finger, “Thursday this house is burglarized, and two nights ago your safe deposit box is looted.”

Lisle’s porcelain skin grew even paler, and the pink rouge stood out on her cheeks. “Yes, but that’s just a coincidence. The whole vault was robbed.”

“No other box holders have had similar coincidences,” Napoleon said. “Unless they’ve been keeping things hushed up too.”

Lisle gripped the oak arms of her chair with manicured fingers. “Mr. Solo, do you have any idea what it’s like to be a Truitt in New York? We sneeze, and it makes page 3. So what if the Hobart Clinic registered her under a different name. They didn’t need a lot of reporters hanging around.” Her disquieted gaze looked past him to the windows as her voice rose. “And we don’t need them here either. Aunt Genny may be a odd duck, but she’s a sweet old duck, and I won’t have the tabloids turning her into a sideshow attraction.”

“Of course not,” Napoleon said soothingly. “We don’t want that either.”

Lisle’s hazel eyes regained their composure, and her hands returned to her lap. “Then you can see why it’s better to put all this behind us.”

Napoleon smiled gently. “I can see why you feel that way, but—”

A cough at the door interrupted him. “Pardon me, Miss Lisle,” Jeffers said. “One of workmen needs to speak to you.”

For a fleeting moment, her posture relaxed. “Excuse me, please, would you?” She rose and stepped out into the hall.

“Napoleon, come look.” Illya jerked his head toward the shelves. 

Napoleon followed his partner quietly. Illya pointed inside the cabinet to a splintered gash in the woodwork. 

“That looks like a bullet hole,” Napoleon said.

“Yes, it does. And I believe the bullet is still in there. Keep a lookout.”

Napoleon watched the door while Illya probed the hole with a pen knife. “Ah-ha.” He displayed a slug of twisted metal, then wrapped it in his handkerchief and slipped it into his pocket.

They were back at the settee when the door opened. Lisle remained on the threshold. “I’m sorry, but I have to go. It’s the curse of a old house; there’s always something to fix. If it were up to me, I’d turn the whole thing into a museum and build a beach house on the bluffs.”

“Won’t the repairs disturb your aunt?” Illya asked.

“Not at all. They’ll be good medicine. Aunt Genny is concerned that the house remains in sound condition.”

She retreated into the hall, giving the agents no choice but to do likewise. She shook Illya’s hand, then Napoleon’s. “Good luck with your investigation. When you do catch the thieves, please let me know.”

“Oh, you’ll be hearing from me,” Napoleon said, retaining her hand. “Soon.”

His brown eyes held hers. Her lips assumed a tight smile, and she slid her fingers from his grasp. 

The cart was waiting for them at the bottom of the front steps. The agents climbed into the back and began the bone-rattling ride to the dock. As they passed close to a stand of maples, Illya slipped off and disappeared into the trees.

When they reached the dock, the driver reined in the horse, then looked over his shoulder. “Hey, where’d the other guy go?”

“Oh, him?” Napoleon said breezily. “He dropped something a little ways back. Don’t worry. He’ll be along soon.” 

Napoleon was stowing the cast off lines when Illya jogged down the dock several minutes later. “Did you find what you were looking for?” Napoleon called. 

Illya climbed onto the boat and began pulling in fenders. “You could say that.”

When they were clear of the dock, Napoleon looked at his partner grimly. “Thrush?”

“Not that I could see. But I did find this.” He held up the stub of a carpenter’s pencil. The name de Grissac was embossed on its flat surface.

Napoleon scrunched his face. “The security firm?”

Illya nodded. “Whatever work is being done, it is not historical preservation.” He tossed the pencil lightly in his hand. “You know what else is odd? That house is full of antiques, but so far our thieves seem more interested in family records.”

“But why? What possible use could Thrush have for them?”

Illya shrugged. “Perhaps they wish to own the island, and something in those records will help. The real question is, did they get what they were looking for?”

“And if they didn’t, when will they be back? I think someone needs to go through those records with a fine-toothed comb.”

Illya sighed. “I was afraid you would think that. I suppose that means another buggy ride for me.”

“Actually, I was thinking of myself.”

“You? You are volunteering to pore over historical documents?”

“Well, it would, ah, also give me the chance to get better acquainted with Miss Truitt,” he said, adding, “Miss Lisle Truitt, that is.”

“Of course.”

“Underneath that cool poise beat the heart of a frightened young woman. So frightened that she’s brought in de Grissac at what must be considerable expense.”

“But who is she trying to keep out?” Illya asked. “Thrush or us?”

“That, I.K., is what I plan to find out.” Napoleon smiled suddenly. “She has a very charming mouth. Did you notice? Like she’s waiting to be kissed.”

“I think she looks a bit like her aunt.”

Napoleon grimaced. “I think you need your eyes checked.”


	3. Chapter 3

Waverly pressed a button on his instrument panel. The wall screen lit up, displaying an elegant revolver with an ivory handle and a long, engraved barrel. 

“The bullet you found, Mr. Kuryakin, was fired by one of these. A Rossi Superior. French. Quite expensive. Last manufactured thirty years ago.”

Napoleon squinted at the screen. “Not your typical Thrush weapon. It looks more like a museum piece.”

“Perhaps this Thrush agent has a fetish for vintage firearms,” Illya suggested. 

“Great, more crackpots,” Napoleon said from the side of his mouth.

“Section III is compiling a list of registered owners,” Waverly continued. “I told them to deliver it to you, Mr. Kuryakin, when they’ve finished.”

“Can it be suppressed?” Napoleon asked, gesturing at the screen.

“Likely not.”

“Then Lisle Truitt must have heard the shot.” Napoleon swiveled his chair toward his Chief. “She was lying to us.”

“At the very least, she omitted pertinent information. Of course, we’ve no proof the shot was fired during the break in.”

“It is a reasonable assumption,” Illya said. He picked up the bullet and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. “The damage to the woodwork appeared fresh.”

Napoleon looked down at an open report and the photograph clipped to its inside cover. A platinum blonde in a couture gown stared coolly back at him. “I’d like to talk to her again.”

“Yes, I thought you would, Mr. Solo,” Waverly said dryly. “Miss Truitt’s reticence does bear further investigation. We must know where her loyalties lie.”

“If I look through the Truitt papers, it will give me the perfect opportunity.”

“You will have to make your own opportunities. The estate’s trustees have granted their permission to move the papers here temporarily. They’ll be photographed and catalogued, then thoroughly examined by Professor Bergner of YIT. Mr. Kuryakin will oversee the transfer.”

“What about de Grissac?” Illya asked, returning the bullet to the table. “Should we not follow up on the work they are doing?”

“I asked the trustees about that matter as well. The day after her arrival, Lisle Truitt requested they approve a contract with de Grissac to make safety and security improvements to the house. They refused at first, objecting to the expense.”

“Yet the project is going forward.”

“It is. The break in convinced them to change their minds.”

“Convenient timing.”

“Yes, Mr. Kuryakin, but convenient for whom?”

“After the papers are dealt with, I would like to talk to someone at de Grissac.”

“You would find them tight-lipped about the project.”

“Really?” Napoleon said. “I see their founder in the papers all the time, bragging about robberies they’ve thwarted or clients they’ve gained.”

“If even half of his claims were true,” Illya said, rolling his eyes, “UNCLE would be superfluous.”

Waverly shook his head. “Mr. Emerson has long been fond of having his picture in the paper. He’s a very shrewd man, however. Anything he tells the press is in the best interests of the firm or their clients. He’ll also indulge in no end of flummeries and evasions to protect them.”

Illya frowned. “Then I shall be persistent.”

“Mr. Emerson responds best to a, ahem, particular type of persuasion.” 

“Female persuasion, you mean,” Napoleon said, a curve to his lips.

“Exactly, Mr. Solo. For that reason, we use a special emissary, if you will.”

Napoleon‘s brows drew together. “I wasn’t aware of that.”

“It’s not an official designation, but she has shown herself suited to the role.”

Illya shifted in his chair. “Miss Dancer?” he asked flatly.

Waverly pressed a button on his instrument panel. “Send in Miss Pemberley,” he said into the intercom, then looked at Illya. “I trust you have no objections, Mr. Kuryakin.”

“None, sir.”

The office door slid aside, revealing a cozy tableau. Mark Slate stood with a hand on the doorframe, his long arm barring the entrance and his green eyes alight with roguery. He spoke in low tones by Faustina’s ear. A delighted grin stretched across her face. 

“Join us, would you, Miss Pemberley?” Waverly called. “That is, unless Mr. Slate’s business is more urgent.”

Mark’s hand left the doorframe and moved to his vibrantly colored tie. “I was conferring with Miss Pemberley on a finer point of fieldwork,” he said with the smooth confidence of one who dissembled for a living. “Gentlemen. Sir.” He nodded to his fellow agents and his Chief, then turned and, with a quick wink at Faustina, made his escape.

Faustina’s grey eyes were sober as she entered the office, but a tell-tale dent lurked at the corner of her wide mouth. She wore a long-sleeved minidress of lavender tweed, cinched under the bust by a matching leather belt. Waverly considered her with knitted brows, Napoleon with an admiring gleam in his brown eyes. Illya considered his fingernails.

“Nose to the grindstone, as always,” he said, not looking up.

Faustina dropped onto the chair beside him. “Thank you, Mr. Kuryakin,” she replied sweetly. “It’s gratifying to know that my humble efforts have met your notice.”

His gaze swung upwards, threatening frostbite, but it found her considering her own lilac nails in wide-eyed innocence. 

Napoleon leaned forward to see around his partner. “I hear you’re UNCLE’s liaison with de Grissac.”

Faustina chuckled. “Liaison? Yes, that’s a fitting term. It sounds more dignified than ‘the girl who knows how to sweet talk Steve Emerson.’”

“I’d like to learn more about your technique,” Napoleon said. His smile faltered under Mr. Waverly’s heavy regard. “As CEA, I should be aware of all the, ah, special talents of all our Enforcement agents.”

“Coals to Newcastle, in this case, Mr. Solo.” He looked at Faustina. “Have you spoken to Mr. Emerson?”

“I have to find him first. He hasn’t been at the office in two days.” She reached over and plucked the bullet from in front of Illya. “Probably at a hotel with some blonde he picked up.” 

“I would think you’d be familiar with his haunts,” Illya said, “as our resident expert.”

Her eyes flashed amethyst, and she bared her teeth at him. “I know his favorite spots. More importantly, I know where he’ll be at eight tonight.”

“Where is that?” Waverly asked.

“At Nardi’s. He’s reserved a table for two.” She rolled the bullet over the back of her forefinger and, with a ripple of her knuckles, walked it across to her pinky. “I checked his apartment and persuaded Ivan to tell me what he knew of his employer’s whereabouts.”

“More sweet talk?” Illya asked, watching the undulating movement of her fingers.

“Nope. Hard cash.” The bullet slipped as it passed once more beneath her hand, and she caught it just before it clattered to the table.

“You mean there was something you couldn’t get by batting your lashes?”

“Sometimes a finsky is more expedient.”

Napoleon grimaced. “I thought we had tabled the discussion of special talents.”

“True, we had. Mr. Kuryakin and I can confer on the finer points of sweet talk another time.”

Illya’s eyes narrowed. As he opened his mouth to retort, Faustina looked beyond him to the screen. “That’s a pretty pistol.”

“A Rossi Superior,” Waverly said. “It matches the bullet you’re holding, which Mr. Kuryakin found at the Truitt’s. An unusual weapon.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve fired one.”

Waverly’s shaggy brows raised. “Have you?”

“Where?” Illya interjected sharply.

She shrugged. “At a party. It’s an old ploy to get a man’s arms around a girl.” 

“His ploy or yours?”

“Depends on the party. I think this guy said, ‘Come with me, Beautiful, and I’ll teach you how to make a big gun go off.’” She laughed derisively. “How’s that for sweet talk?”

Waverly turned off the screen with a click. “That’s all, gentlemen. You have your assignments. Miss Pemberley, I wish to speak to you more about this de Grissac business.”

“Yes, sir.” Napoleon gathered his report and headed for the door.

Illya stood and held out a waiting palm. “The bullet.”

Faustina passed the slug back and forth between her hands. “What’s the magic word?”

Illya glared at her frostily. “Please,” he said with clenched teeth.

She shook her head, her eyes dancing with amusement. “It’s abracadabra.” She opened one hand, then the other, with a flourish. Each was empty.

Napoleon appeared at Illya’s elbow. “Come on. You can hold your conference later.” 

Faustina chuckled. With a final, withering glance, Illya strode quickly from the office, his partner in his wake.

She looked at the door for a few moments after it closed, smiling ruefully. Then she rose and walked around the table. She took the humidor from the alcove and set it next to Waverly.

“A three-pipe problem, eh?” he said as he removed the lid. “What do you know about that pistol?”

“I know where there are two just like it.” She perched on the edge of the table. “The one I fired was at Saint Cloud. It belongs to Rene Farrand.”

His hand froze, then resumed feeding Isle of Dogs No. 22 into his pipe bowl. “Let us hope that is not in our database.”

“The de Grissac trademark is a brace of crossed pistols within an emerald. I don’t know Solo very well, but not much gets past Kuryakin.” 

“Indeed.”

She pulled the bullet from her pocket and returned it to the table. “I could divert his attention, if necessary.”

Waverly gave his pipe a test draw. “He’s reviewed your personnel file.”

She smiled. “The little dear. I hope he appreciated your literary efforts.”

He harrumphed and charred his tobacco. “Who has the other pistol?”

“Steve. Rene gave it to him when they started the firm, a symbol of their partnership. But it wasn’t at his apartment.”

“Are you certain?”

“The case was empty, and I didn’t see it anywhere else. I told Ivan I’d left my compact. He knew I was lying, of course, but he let me poke around to my heart’s content.”

Waverly relit his pipe, then leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Puffs of sweet-smelling smoke drifted toward the ceiling. Faustina hopped from the table edge and began to pace, her steps quickening with each length of the room.

“Why would they resort to these tricks again?” she said, flinging her arms about. “It was one thing after the war when they were starting out, but that was over twenty years ago. They’re established and successful. Why risk it all now?”

“That is a question Emerson must answer tonight.” He opened his eyes. “De Grissac has contracts across the globe. Estates, banks, museums, laboratories.”

“Hotels,” she added.

He nodded. “Imagine the chaos if their security systems were to be compromised by Thrush.”

“Or if they started cancelling their contracts. A Thrush subsidiary could swoop in like that.” She snapped her fingers. 

“Then you realize how serious this is.”

“Yes.” She stopped pacing and faced her Chief. “I know you’d rather have a different agent on this.”

His eyes met hers frankly. “I would prefer one with more experience in Section II. The more people I involve, however, the higher the risk.”

She returned to the table, taking the chair beside him. “Steve and his stupid pillow talk. I’ve got secrets enough of my own. I don’t need to be responsible for other people’s.” Her fingers drummed on the tabletop.

“Do you think Emerson has told anyone else?”

“No, I don’t. He didn’t tell me either, not at first. I pieced it together from little things he said. He was genuinely horrified when he realized I knew.”

“Rightly so. That one fact in the wrong hands would mean devastation for his partner and everything they’ve built. Not to mention the broader ramifications.” 

“So it’s a hill to die on.”

“If it comes to that,” he said gruffly. “In this case, even the Truitts are expendable. The world mustn’t learn that Rene Farrand is Arsene Lupin.”


	4. Chapter 4

“I finally had to tell her that my galleon was in the shop for a barnacle scraping and needed to be picked up,” Napoleon said.

Lisle Truitt smiled, then patted her lips with a napkin and draped it beside the remains of her crème brûlée. “This was delicious. Thank you for bringing it.”

Napoleon drained the last of the Beaujolais blanc from his glass. “Perhaps when your aunt is feeling better we can try their dining room. It’s the next best thing to being in Paris.”

The door to the kitchen swung open, admitting a woman with a tray. She wore a front-laced bodice and full skirt of blue wool. A while linen cap covered her graying hair.

“Magnificently done, Mrs. Jeffers,” Napoleon said as she cleared the dishes. “Francois couldn’t have plated it better.”

“Thank you, Mr. Solo,” she replied warmly, “but don’t mention that to Miss Truitt. She’ll say I’ve been conspiring with the enemy.” 

Lisle smiled at Napoleon’s pursed-lipped confusion. “She means the French. As far as Genny is concerned, King William’s War never ended.”

Napoleon snapped his fingers. “Ah, I see. Then she must be unhappy about you living in Paris.”

“She was. Eventually she started calling it Savoy, and the problem was solved. It’s amazing how resourceful she can be.” She slanted her long, hazel eyes toward the departing figure of Mrs. Jeffers and coughed delicately.

Mrs. Jeffers sent back an inquiring glance.

“Coffee?” Lisle asked.

Mrs. Jeffers blushed. “Oh, yes. I put it on the terrace. It’s a mild night, and there’s a beautiful moon.” With a girlish giggle, she disappeared into the kitchen.

Napoleon stood and came around the table. “Shall we?” he asked, grasping the back of her chair. He leaned closer. “I’m sure you look lovely in the moonlight.”

“And I’m sure you do your best work by it.” With choreographed elegance, Lisle rose from her chair and tucked her arm through his.

His lips curved. “Well, I don’t like to kiss and tell.”

They went through a set of French doors and onto the terrace. Warm light from the surrounding windows gilded the flagstones, while the landscape beyond glowed silver in the moonlight. 

She turned and lifted her face. “What about show and tell?”

Napoleon looked at her in mild surprise and tilted his head. His lips brushed hers, briefly at first, then returned to linger as her arm wrapped around his back. 

With a little hum of satisfaction, Lisle rested her head on his shoulder. Napoleon nuzzled her platinum curls. “You know, earlier today I got the impression you weren’t very fond of me.”

“I’m sorry about that,” she said with a sigh. “It’s this place. Even out here, I feel like I’m under a microscope. That’s why I moved to Europe. No one there cares if your name is Truitt.”

He pressed a kiss onto her temple. “I hope tonight gave you a taste of home.” 

She nodded, then stepped out of his embrace. “An extravagant one. I don’t eat like this every night, not on a model’s salary.”

She turned and, with her elegant stride, crossed to a wrought iron table. Napoleon watched her, head cocked, eyes admiring. A black sweater dress skimmed her lithe figure, its long bell sleeves echoing the hem which flared out a few inches past her wrists. Beneath the turtleneck collar, a keyhole closure provided a glimpse of the smooth, pale skin between her shoulder blades. “What about the Truitt fortune?” he asked, joining her.

She poured out two cups of coffee and, at his nod, added a sugar cube and a splash of cream. “Unfortunately, the name came with more notoriety than money.”

“Aren’t you next in line for all this?”

“Yes,” she sighed as she handed him a cup. “And all this costs an unbelievable amount. The taxes alone are astronomical. What’s left of the Truitt fortune is held in trust to maintain the island, and the board members consider it a sacred responsibility.” 

They strolled to the edge of the terrace, sipping their coffee. On their left, the moonlight imposed a monochromic harmony over the jumble of additions descending the gentle slope. To their right, it frosted the landscape as it transformed from manicured lawns to open meadow and finally dense woods of white oak and birch. 

“I’m not sure I disagree with them,” Napoleon said, resting one foot on the balustrade. “There’s something special about this place. It would be a shame to see it overrun with condominiums.” 

“Then they can create a nature preserve next to the museum.”

“What about your, ah, beach house?”

“Only if the board insists I live here,” she said. “And that will be for as little of the year as I can manage.”

Napoleon lowered his foot and set his empty cup in its place. “You’d still prefer Paris.”

“I would.” Her fingers clutched his arm. “Did you feel that?”

“What?” Napoleon barked, immediately alert.

“My forebears spinning in their graves.” She laughed and released his coat sleeve. “Most Truitts couldn’t stand to live any farther from the island than Sands Point.”

“Is that where you grew up?”

“No, Manorhaven. My father was cut off when he proposed to the housemaid.”

“I hope true love prevailed.”

“It did. He and _maman_ were perfectly content, which is more than I can say for the rest of the Truitt clan.”

Napoleon grimaced. “You mean the lawsuit.”

“Every family has its squabbles. Most don’t take them all the way to the State Supreme Court.” 

A light breeze blew across the terrace. Lisle shivered. Napoleon set her cup next to his, then wrapped his arms around her. “That must have been difficult,” he said sympathetically.

“I’ll never forgive John. It’s terrible to make a ten year old testify. She was just Aunt Genny, with her funny old clothes and her pirate stories. Until that point, I’d never thought of her as crazy.”

“The court didn’t think so either,” he said and kissed the tip of her nose. “She didn’t lose the island.”

“Miraculously. She took the stand in a silk mantua and lace headdress, for Pete’s sake.” Lisle looked at him archly and lowered her voice. “If you ask me, one of the trustees bribed the jury.” 

“Really?”

“John wanted to turn the island into an executive retreat. If the board balked at the thought of new intercoms, can you imagine how they felt about his plans?”

Napoleon smiled and asked lightly, “Did your cousin have any children?”

She shook her head. “None that I know about. That’s how I became the heir. There’s only a few of us left, really. Genny is the last of the old guard.” She looked past him out over the island. “As much as I resent all this, it still makes me sad.”

Napoleon ran his knuckles along her cheek, then bent his head to kiss her. A cough interrupted him. 

“Excuse me,” Mrs. Jeffers said. “The nurse says it’s time to get Miss Truitt settled for the night.”

“The evening edition,” Lisle exclaimed. “I almost forgot.” 

She took Napoleon’s arm and led him back to the house. They strolled through a series of interconnected rooms as if perusing an exhibition of nineteenth century interior design, while Lisle’s dulcet tones offered biting critiques of her ancestors and their tastes.

“This is the only one I can stand,” she declared as they entered an octagonal sitting room. The furnishings were obscured by drop cloths, but the stepped cove ceiling and nickel-plated sconces indicated Art Deco. “They wanted to put the master station in the red room, but I put my foot down.”

“Ah, yes. The room with the bugs,” Napoleon said, peeking under a sheet to find a curved armrest of bird’s eye maple and a cushion of peacock blue velvet. “Well, the Victorians were fond of nature. Butterfly collections and that sort of thing.”

“That doesn’t mean they had to carve them into the furniture.” She shuddered. “Makes my skin crawl.”

She moved to the wall and a state-of-the-art intercom panel. The painted plaster around its edges was rough and chipped. “The first few units were installed today. This one’s getting a maple facing to match the furniture.”

“Of course, it is.” Napoleon stood behind Lisle and encircled her with his arms. He looked over her shoulder at the tiny gold emblem on the panel. “You were lucky to get them out here so fast. I understand de Grissac has quite a waiting list.”

Lisle shifted her weight, then leaned back into Napoleon’s embrace. “That’s one thing the Truitt name is good for.”

“And the faster this project is finished, the faster you can get back to Paris.”

“Yes, I can, as soon as everyone’s safe.”

“Safe?” he murmured, his lips brushing her ear.

“Safe and sound. I can’t leave until Genny’s on her feet again.” She flicked a switch on the panel. “Mason?”

After a few seconds, a gruff voice hollered through the speaker. “Yeah?”

She adjusted the volume knob. “Is the windmill set?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Any boaters?”

“One. Some guy who’d been doing less fishing than drinking. Insisted this was the New Rochelle Municipal Marina. I gave him some coffee from the boathouse and sent him on his way.”

“Ask him for a description,” Napoleon whispered.

Lisle hesitated, and he gave her waist a squeeze. “What did he look like?” she asked.

“Beard. Dark cap. Seemed familiar.”

“Sounds like a repeat customer. Thank you, Mason.” She flipped the switch, closing the connection. A black Bakelite phone sat on an enswathed table below the panel. She picked up the handset and joggled the hook switch violently. “I’ll be glad when they pull out these old things.”

“Do you get many trespassers?”

“Some. Most turn back at the Private Island markers. If they make it onshore, Mason and his blunderbuss convince them to move along.” 

Lisle pressed a button on the phone. “Nurse?” she yelled after a pause. A burst of static and a faint, tinny response came from the receiver. “Windmill set and one drunken sailor,” she continued loudly. “OK? Good night.”

She hung up the phone. “Another day without the return of Jolly Captain Goode.” She reached back and stroked Napoleon’s cheek. “Unless we count you.”

He grimaced. “UNCLE should post a security team.”

“We’re not starting that again.” She turned in his embrace and rested her hands on his shoulders. “Old Gus has been night watchman here for thirty years. He once sent a Nazi raiding party scurrying back to their submarine, or so he claims. I won’t insult him by suggesting he can’t do his job.” She softened her demurral with a quick kiss. 

Napoleon smiled and tightened his arms. His lips hovered near hers. “That means I’ll have to give matters here my, ah, personal attention.” 

“That suits me perfectly.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Only a male designer would put rhinestones under your arms,” Faustina said, clamping a sliver clutch between her dress and her sore limb, then resting her other hand on her hip. “A woman would know better.”

Heather McNabb dodged the protruding elbow. “If it chafes, why did you buy it?”

“Because it’s so pretty.”

They turned the corner and almost collided with a trio of conversing agents. Heather’s knitting bag clattered to the floor. A ball of purple yarn rolled down the corridor.

As April retrieved the fugitive wool, Mark knelt to help Heather repack her bag. Illya looked at his watch, then raised his eyes to Faustina, frowning. “Shouldn’t you be at dinner with Emerson?”

“I’m on my way. I just had to swing in and grab something.”

“Anti-aggression spray?” April asked as she wound the loose purple strand around the ball. She looked over Faustina’s outfit, then shook her head. “You may need it. That dress is a little…obvious.”

Faustina bared her teeth. “And avoid the exercise? It’s my favorite kind.”

Heather giggled, and Mark broke into a coughing fit as he helped her to her feet.

“I’m sure it is,” April said, her brown eyes narrowing. “As much as I’d like to stay and chat, we have a mission to prepare for.” She took Mark’s arm. “A dangerous mission protecting important people.”

“Compared to milk runs like mine?” Faustina’s eyes, tinted green by her gown, were laden with arsenic. “Perhaps someday, if I’m a good little spy, I’ll also be entrusted with missions where I can, say, run around England in a leotard. How is Rodney, by the way? Does he write?”

“Daily,” April spat back.

Mark winced as April’s arm tightened around his. “Time for separate corners, love, before you do me an injury.”

April released his arm. “Sorry, darling,” she said, smiling warmly at him. She gave a little wave to Illya and Heather and strode away.

Mark walked backwards for a few steps, looking over Faustina’s dress with admiring eyes. He kissed his fingertips. After Faustina smiled and bobbed a shallow curtsy, he jogged after his partner.

Faustina turned to Illya with raised brows, waiting for him to step out of her path. He crossed his arms and leaned one shoulder against the wall. “All female personnel are required to carry anti-aggression spray,” he said. “It is in the regulations.”

“Another product of the male mind.” Faustina said to Heather, who nodded in agreement. “If I followed those to the letter, I’d need a handbag the size of a suitcase.”

“And if Emerson gets too familiar?” he countered.

“She’s got a bear trap in her girdle,” Heather said. 

Faustina chuckled. “You watch too many cartoons.”

Illya glowered at Heather. “Who is monitoring Communications?”

“Wanda. My shift doesn’t start for fifteen minutes.”

He continued to stare at her darkly. Heather shrugged and addressed Faustina. “Talk to you later. Remember, I want all the sordid details.”

“Unless you are her assigned contact,” Illya said, “Miss Pemberley cannot divulge information on an active affair.”

“Then she can leave her channel open, and I’ll listen in.” With a toss of her head, Heather departed in the direction of the elevator.

Illya’s blue eyes slowly raked over Faustina from French twist to silver heels.

“Like it?” The long skirt of emerald silk swirled about her legs as she spun. The green velvet bodice had narrow shoulder straps and a high waist cut in a row of scallops, all edged in a triple band of rhinestones.

“It looks like it was made for you,” he said coldly, “which I presume it was.”

“I couldn’t meet Steve in something off the rack. He has expensive tastes.” Lips in a wry twist, she stepped around him and continued down the corridor. 

“As do you,” he replied, following her.

“Funny how well that worked out.”

She activated her office door and went inside. Illya paused on the threshold as she dropped her purse on the desk and circled behind it. “Exactly how did you become liaison to de Grissac?” he demanded.

“I wrote the winning essay,” she said, digging through the center drawer. Illya made a scoffing sound. “I did. It was called, ‘My Torrid Affair with Steve Emerson and The Little Torch He Still Carries for Me.’”

“That was a serious question.”

“And it got a mostly serious answer.”

Illya stepped into the office, and the door slid shut behind him. “Emerson is old enough to be your father.”

“But young enough to be my daddy.” She fluttered fake lashes at him and, chuckling, returned to her search.

“Like butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth,” he muttered.

Her eyes flitted to the ceiling, and a little wrinkle formed between her brows. “I don’t think that fits. To me, it implies coldness, which rarely describes me. You, on the other hand—Ah-ha.” With a triumphant cry, she brandished a pair of rhinestone earrings. 

Illya opened his mouth to respond, then closed it with a snap. “I dislike wild goose chases,” he announced after a few seconds. 

“I dislike French coffee and the operas of Verdi,” she responded, skewering one earlobe with the post of a long, sparkling teardrop.

He blinked. "What?”

“Aren’t we getting to know each other better?”

His smile held no humor. “Let us do so. You can start by telling me what you know about that pistol.”

“That’s business talk,” she protested, working on the other earring. “Wouldn’t you like to hear about my childhood?” 

He rested his palms on the desk and leaned forward. “You know who owns that pistol. I can tell.”

“You can? We’re more simpatico than I realized.”

“You are quite obvious.”

Green lightning arced across her eyes. “So much for inviting you to poker night.”

She wrenched open another drawer and bent to dig through it. 

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Is that all you have to say?”

“I’m sorry,” she said sweetly. “I can’t divulge information on an active affair.”

“Will you stop rifling through that drawer? You have your earrings. What else do you need?”

“These.” She tossed a box of tampons onto the desk. 

Illya flinched but did not step back. “You will not put me off that easily.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She opened the box and pulled out a paper-wrapped tube, then dropped it into her purse.

“You cannot discomfit me into leaving.”

She put her own hands on the desk, her fingertips touching his, and leaned forward. “Can’t I?”

Grey eyes locked with blue. Seconds ticked by. Their faces drew closer millimeter by millimeter, a game of brinksmanship in which neither intended to back down.

They were nose to nose, firmly on the path to mutually assured osculation, when Illya’s communicator sounded, blaring like a civil defense siren in the small office. 

They each straightened. Illya took out his communicator. Faustina picked up her purse.

“We will come back to this later,” Illya said as she walked past him to the door.

“I know.” She smiled wryly. “It’s starting to seem inevitable.”

She disappeared into the corridor. Illya activated his communicator. “Kuryakin here.”

“How goes it with you?” Napoleon asked.

Illya frowned at the blue and white box on the desktop. “Stalemate.”

“Huh?”

“I have learned nothing useful so far.” He sat on the edge of the desk. “None of the registered owners of a Rossi Superior have any known connection to Thrush or the Truitts. Our local offices are following up, of course, but I do not think they will find anything.”

“Well, since you are at your leisure, you can get a dossier on someone for me.”

Illya dragged Faustina’s desk calendar closer. It was two days behind. “Name?”

“John Truitt. Deceased. He tried and failed to win control of the island about fifteen years ago.”

“Even if he owned a Rossi Superior,” Illya said, writing down the name, “it does not sound as if he has used it lately.”

“I’d like to be sure of that. Death certificate. Coroner’s report. A skull.”

Illya rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes. I understand. What else?”

“Children, legitimate or otherwise. Lisle doesn’t know of any, but just maybe there’s one out there.”

“Anxious to pick up where he left off. Got it.” He tore off the page. “What have you found out?”

“De Grissac is updating the intercoms. They’ve also begun converting a spare bedroom into a more suitable space for the family records.”

“That is it?”

“So far.”

“What about the bullet?”

“Well, she claims she didn’t hear any shot, but I’ll keep working on her.”

“Yes, I’m sure you will,” he said and closed his communicator.

Illya picked up the phone and punched in an extension. “This is Kuryakin, Section Two. I need a dossier on a John Truitt.” He conveyed the details. “Tomorrow morning, yes.”

He tore off the other outdated page from the calendar. Under it he found the notation ‘SE 8pm’ in large letters. He stared at it grimly. “I also have a priority request. Everything we have on de Grissac.” He spelled it. “The firm. The founders. Everything. Immediate turnaround. I will be down in five minutes.”

He hung up the phone and flipped the calendar page. Across the next day he wrote, ‘IK 9am Re Pistol.’ Then he stood and walked to the door.

A minute later he was back at the desk. His hand hovered over the calendar. With a groan, he tore out the next day’s page. He crushed it in his fist and left.


	6. Chapter 6

“Yes, I’m sure you will.” 

Unperturbed by his partner’s acerbic sign off, Napoleon closed his communicator and slipped it inside his jacket. He peered under drop cloths, admiring the elegant Art Deco furniture, until Lisle returned to the sitting room, curls tidied and nose powdered. 

“What was this business about the windmill?” he asked after complimenting her appearance. “Don’t tell me your aunt jousts at them.”

“It’s another one of her fancies. She’s used to seeing it out her bedroom window, but while she’s in traction, she has to be in this part of the house.” Lisle took his hand. “Come on, I’ll show you. It’s kind of romantic.”

She led him back through the cavalcade of rooms, gradually ascending the hill, then up a hallway broken by shallow turns and short flights of steps. The passage ended at a timber plank door with hand-forged hardware. 

Lisle lit a candle from the wall shelf. She opened the door, and they stepped into the dark, paneled hall, the tiny flame casting its dancing light around them.

“I’m all for a nice cabin and a weekend in the woods,” Napoleon said, “but I can’t imagine doing it permanently.”

Lisle laughed. “Even the Jeffers draw the line at some things. Mrs. Jeffers refuses to cook in the open hearth in the cellar. And don’t get me started on the Great Chamber Pot Conflict.”

Napoleon grimaced. “I won’t.”

They climbed the narrow staircase, the aged wood creaking beneath their feet, and emerged in a smaller central hallway. Several doors led off of it. 

“In here.” She entered a room to their left, and her flickering nimbus receded into the darkness. 

Following her, Napoleon stumbled on something in the shadows at his feet. “I hope that wasn’t the chamber pot.”

“Hold on. I’ll get the curtains.” She pulled aside the draperies, and shafts of watery moonlight slanted through the wavy glass panes. Lisle made a circuit of the room, touching her candle to those mounted in wall sconces and set in pewter sticks on the mantle.

The soft light revealed a bedroom spanning the eastern end of the house. A four poster bed of carved oak dominated the center of the room. More antique furniture lined the walls, similarly dark, heavy, and quadrangular. Each piece, as well as the surrounding wall space, displayed artifacts of the seventeenth century. 

Napoleon let out a low whistle. “You weren’t kidding about a museum.”

“Some are family pieces. She’s spent decades collecting the rest.” Lisle picked up a doubloon from a delftware bowl and attempted to flip it across the back of her fingers. “There’s more in the other rooms up here. She’s even got a cannon. It was too heavy to keep in the house, so it lives in the garden shed.”

Napoleon slid a Khanjarli dagger from its curved sheath. “Where did it all come from?” 

“Estate sales. Auctions. And she gets letters offering her things.”

“I thought she never left the island.”

“Not if she can help it.”

Napoleon took a flintlock pistol off the wall and looked along its barrel. “Does she have buying agents?”

“Sort of. It’s called the Jolyon Goode Society.”

“What, pray tell, is that?” 

“A small group who believes in Goode’s innocence and wants to see him exonerated. Genny’s their president.”

He gestured to the artifacts with a flourish of the pistol. “And they get all this stuff for her?”

“The Society funds the purchases through an endowment, and the items are kept here at its headquarters.”

“I bet I can guess who provided the endowment.”

Lisle nodded. “Genny. She has money from her mother that’s outside the trustees’ control. I told you she was resourceful.”

Napoleon tapped his pursed lips with the end of the pistol barrel. “Does this Society of hers hold meetings?” 

“An annual one here in June.” Her hazel eyes widened at the intimation. “But none of this was touched. Jeffers dusts them every day. He would notice. Besides, the society members are just little old ladies who are sweet on a pirate.”

“I’ve known several such ladies who were extremely, ah, resourceful. You’re right, though. If he’d wanted to grab any of this, your thief had every opportunity.”

“My thief?” she said, her voice stricken. Her gaze shifted to a broadsheet on the wall beside her.

“My thief, then,” he amended, following her gaze. The framed proclamation offered a £500 reward for the capture of Goode. “It’s my job to catch him.” 

“UNCLE put its best man on the case, didn’t they?”

He smiled as he returned the pistol to the wall. “Another benefit of the Truitt name.”

“Top-notch service.” She squared her shoulders and turned to him with the sangfroid of the salon. “Did Genny tell you the legend of Jolly Captain Goode?” 

“I gleaned a little. She probably assumed that the Captain was familiar with the details.”

She reached out and touched a crewel-work bed curtain. “When I was a kid, I loved to snuggle up in here and watch her tell it. You should see her. She could do it off-Broadway as a one-woman show.” 

“I’d love hear it from you,” he said, settling on the end of the bed.

“It won’t be as good.” Lisle took position in front of the fireplace and raised one arm as if preparing to give an oration. “I remember it better if I do it like she does. You won’t laugh?”

Napoleon held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

Lisle cleared her throat and began to speak in high, chirping tones. “Jolyon Goode was a gentleman and privateer commissioned by King William III. He sailed his ship the _Trident_ as far as the Indian Ocean, amassing a fortune in gold and jewels.” 

She struck her fist against her chest. “But his success aroused jealousy in the breasts of less-honorable captains, particularly in the black heart of Bartholomew Corvus. Hoisting a false flag o’er his ship the _Raven_ , Corvus attacked friendly vessels and raided settlements, ruining the Captain’s good name.” 

“Goode’s good name,” Napoleon chuckled, then looked contrite.

“I always giggled at that part too,” Lisle admitted in her normal voice before resuming her impression of her aunt. “Branded a pirate, a price on his noble head, Goode pursued Corvus across the seas, seeking to capture his enemy and clear his name. At last he overtook his foe here at this Island, which was under attack by Corvus and his men. With the very cutlass mounted in the drawing room, Captain Goode drove back the murderous band.” 

She flung out her arm and pointed a finger at the flintlock on the wall. “Corvus, seeing he was outmatched, refused to cross swords with Goode. Instead he pulled that pistol from his belt. In an act of cowardice that will ring through the ages, Corvus shot down the valiant Captain and made his escape.”

At this tragic pronouncement, Lisle sank gracefully into a spindle-back armchair, her head hung low with grief. Napoleon applauded. “Excellent first act.”

“Thank you,” Lisle said, looking up as he approached. She took his hand and allowed him to pull her to her feet. “I think I’ll leave the theatrics to Genny.”

Napoleon smiled and kissed her knuckles. “I’ll be happy to hear the rest in your own charming fashion.”

“Well, luckily for Captain Goode, the wound looked worse than it was. Lionel Truitt was grateful for the rescue and agreed to let him bury his treasure on the island. But he was also afraid of harboring a wanted man, so he demanded the _Trident_ leave immediately after.”

“Treasure?” Napoleon asked.

“Don’t get too excited. I’m coming to that part.” Lisle pointed to a set of portraits on the mantle. One depicted a young woman with long, brown eyes and a small mouth, her solemn face framed by pale blonde ringlets. “Iphigenia Truitt was the fairest lady in all of the colony of New York,” Lisle said, with just a hint of her aunt’s breathless twitter.

“You favor her.”

“All the Truitt women do. Genny looked just like her when she was young.”

“I’ll, ah, take your word for it.”

The second portrait, a pencil sketch, lacked the finesse of the painting in the drawing room, but Jolyon Goode’s roguish eyes and satisfied smile were recognizable in the artist’s untutored strokes. 

Lisle looked from the sketch to Napoleon. “There is a resemblance, you know. I can see why she was smitten.”

“Is that true of all the Truitt women?”

“When we fall, we fall hard and fast.” Lisle’s gaze shifted back to the portraits. “It was love at first sight for Iphigenia and the Captain. She begged her father to give Goode time to recover, and Lionel gave in, although that probably had more to do with the Burmese ruby he’d been given. Iphigenia and Goode met in secret while the _Trident_ was at anchor. The Captain wanted to marry her, but he needed to clear his name first. Before he set out, he swore an oath that he would return for her and his treasure.”

“But he never did.”

“No. When he caught up with the _Raven_ again, both ships went down in the battle.”

“No survivors?”

“Just a cabin boy. Rumors of the treasure reached the governor of New York, and he informed Lionel that he was sending troops to seize it. As the ship approached the island, it spotted the cabin boy carrying off one of the chests. The ship fired, but the boy escaped. The last they saw of him was a small sloop heading for Hempstead Bay. The rest of the treasure was confiscated and sent to London.”

“That’s too bad,” Napoleon said. “It was a childhood dream to find a buried treasure.”

“All Truitt children have felt that way, including me. Every inch of this island has been attacked by shovels, hoping to find a stray silver bar or gold chalice. No one’s ever found as much as a copper penny.”

Lisle smiled wanly and glided over to a window. Napoleon joined her. In the distance, rising above the tree line, the vanes of a windmill caught the moonlight. They were fixed in a giant X.

“Where does the windmill come in?” he asked. “Is that where the lovers would rendezvous?”

“I hope they found a more romantic spot than that,” Lisle said, her full lips forming a moue of distaste. “The windmill was to be a signal between Iphigenia and Goode. When he returned, if he saw the vanes set in an X, he would know she was waiting for him. According to the legend, she kept watch for the _Trident_ on the bluffs every day, ready to set the vanes, until she died of a broken heart.”

Lisle hugged herself. Napoleon embraced her from behind and rested his chin on her shoulder. “That’s why your aunt keeps the vanes that way.”

“Yes. And why she walks the bluffs each morning.”

“No wonder she was so excited to see me.”

“Poor Genny,” she sighed. “And poor Iphigenia. Spending their lives waiting for a man who can never return.”

Her voice broke. Napoleon turned her shoulders until she faced him, then pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. “Hey now, I meant this to be a pleasant evening. I didn’t anticipate tears.”

“It’s all hitting me at once, I guess. Genny, the island, the break ins,” she said, rubbing her temple.

“I should be heading home.” He gave her the handkerchief so she could wipe her nose. “You should take a hot bath, make yourself a nightcap, and go right to bed.”

“That sounds marvelous.” 

“And I’ll be back tomorrow.”

She twisted the square of cotton between her manicured fingers. “Napoleon, do UNCLE agents shoot to kill?”

“What?”

“I mean, if the thief does come here again, I wouldn’t want this place to turn into a war zone.”

“Don’t worry. We prefer sleep darts. Just as effective, and the wheels of justice get their chance to turn.” He grasped her elbows lightly. “Am I still welcome tomorrow?”

She pressed her cheek to his. “Yes, very welcome.”


	7. Chapter 7

A waiter set an ice bucket on a stand beside the gentleman at table 12, who with his long nose and wide, toothy grin, had the look of an amiable shark. His hooded eyes, dark blue and lively, widened at the sight of the champagne.

“Wrong table. We ordered cocktails.”

“Compliments of a lady, sir,” the waiter said and gestured toward the bar.

The gentleman looked closely at the label as the waiter displayed the bottle. His left eyebrow rose and pulled the corner of his mouth up with it, revealing a dent in his cheek. “Oh, yes. Thanks.”

His companion patted her brassy bouffant, her frosted lips forming a tight smile. “Who’s sending you champagne, Stevie?”

“Probably an old flame.” As her smile flattened, he said, “Burning purely on her side, honey. There’s always a candle in the window for Steve Emerson.”

The waiter popped the cork and poured champagne into two coupe glasses. The young woman sipped hers and wrinkled her nose. “It’s not as good as the pink kind.”

Steve drained his glass and ran a hand over his sleek, salt-and-pepper hair. “I’ll go say thanks. Can’t leave the poor thing pining for me.”

“What about me?” his date cried, pouting as he pushed back from the table. “I don’t want to pine either.”

Steve stood and adjusted his black dinner jacket. “I won’t be long. An attractive thing like you, someone is bound to steal you away.”

He brushed a knuckle across her cheek and departed, leaving her staring resentfully at the bubbles in her Bollinger. He wound his way between the tables, his tall, trim figure drawing admiring glances. When he reached the bar, he surveyed its length. His gaze fixed on a green evening gown. His dimple reappeared, and his eyes shone with anticipation.

He approached her barstool and, pausing behind it, pressed a kiss beside her rhinestone shoulder strap. “Kitten,” he murmured.

“Hello, Steve,” Faustina replied casually. 

He threw out his hands, palms up, and shrugged. “How the mighty have fallen. I recall a time when you would purr at that greeting.”

“It still gives me a nice warm feeling.” She held up a glass of red wine. “So does this.”

As he claimed the next stool, she signaled the bartender to pour a second glass.

“I’ve been compared to worse things,” he said. Taking up his glass, he swirled the wine and sniffed deeply. “I hope it’s a good year.”

Faustina regarded his Grecian profile. Her lips curved fondly. “Would I choose otherwise?” 

Steve drank, then exhaled in satisfaction. “Remind me why I let you go.”

“To free up your arms for someone else. The same reason I left you.”

“The folly of youth.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to maturity and wisdom.”

They touched glasses and drank. 

“What was Ivan’s take this time?” 

“Five.”

“You spoil him,” he said, pulling a gold cigarette case from his inside pocket. “We could’ve met tomorrow at my office, you know. I’d have brought lunch in. It would’ve been like old times.”

She shook her head at the proffered case. “Maybe I wanted to dance with you.”

He took out a cigarette and tapped it against the monogrammed lid. “Just dance? We used to have a lot of fun together.” 

“We’ve found other playmates.” She looked into the mirror behind the bar at the obliquely reflected dining room. “I see you’re running true to form.”

He grinned. “Can I help it if I have a type? Besides, I liked you, didn’t I?” He held the cigarette between his lips and fished a gold lighter from his outside pocket. He lit the tobacco, inhaled, then released a column of smoke. “You should be flattered. You’re the only raven-haired girl I ever fell for.”

“It was dyed.” 

“I know.” With the cigarette in his left hand, he rested his elbow on the bar and buried his right hand in his jacket pocket. “How it tormented me to know you could just as easily have gone blonde.”

“As easily as she has.”

He laughed. “You’re showing your claws, kitten. Who’s the guy?”

“What?”

“Someone’s got you bewitched, bothered and bewildered, and it’s not Steve Emerson.”

“Damn,” she said, her lips twisting into a wry grin. “I really am becoming obvious.”

“It’s my Sherlock training.” He considered her self-mocking amusement. “That bad, huh? A member of the competition?”

“No, a coworker.”

“Hah. Even worse.” 

They watched in the mirror as a brassy bouffant drew closer. “Take it from someone who’s wined and dined his fair share of his secretaries,” he said, “office affairs always end badly.”

“Yet you keep having them.”

He shrugged as he swiveled toward his oncoming dinner date. “I’m just a hopeless romantic.”

“Is that what we’re calling it these days?”

The bottle blonde in the satin column dress wiggled over to them. “Stevie, aren’t you going to introduce me?” 

“Sure, honey.” The sweep of his hand traveled from her to Faustina. “Miss Carter, Miss Pemberley.”

The women nodded to each other.

“So you work at de Grissac,” Faustina said, her face a mask of polite interest. “Receptionist?” 

Miss Carter bristled. “Stenographer.”

“Stevie does appreciate nimble fingers.” 

Miss Carter lifted her chin and turned a cold shoulder to Faustina. She walked two nimble fingers up the sleeve of Steve’s jacket. “I thought we came here to dance.” 

“My apologies, honey. Miss Pemberley and I were reminiscing.”

“College buddies, were you?” she said with a smirk.

“Of course,” Faustina replied. “We wrestled together.”

Miss Carter inhaled sharply, further straining the satin panel which encompassed her bust. “If you don’t want to dance with me, Stevie,” she declared, “I’ll find someone who will.” 

She turned her back on them and, discovering an appealing prospect a few stools away, simpered at him. The man looked about in confusion, then smiled back hesitantly.

“Great idea,” Steve agreed heartily. He aimed his wide, shark-like grin at the man. “I’m sure that our friend here…”

At Steve’s nod of encouragement, the man approached them. “Richard Vance,” he said, his gaze darting from Steve to Faustina, before settling on Miss Carter with the eagerness of a puppy.

“I’m sure Dick here is a fine dancer,” Steve continued. “Now you two run along and enjoy yourselves, and Miss Pemberley and I will talk about the good old days.”

Vance stuck out his elbow. “Shall we?”

Miss Carter took his arm and steered him toward the dance floor. “Do you cha-cha, Dickie?”

Steve watched his office fling walk away, his face unmarked by regret. “So long, honey,” he murmured. “It was fun while it lasted.” 

He swiveled around to face the bar and found a slug of gray metal next to his glass. “And here I thought this was a social call.” He picked up the bullet. “Where’d this come from?” 

“The manor house on Truitt Island,” Faustina said. “It was lodged in a wall.”

He held his fist to his forehead. “This was fired by a Rossi Superior.”

“Correct. New trick?”

“It’s the Carnac in me.”

Faustina put her hand on his sleeve. “Exactly how bad off is de Grissac, Steve?” 

“What?” His dark blue eyes widened. “Kitten, I didn’t put this slug in that wall.”

She gave his arm a squeeze. “What was it you’d say? ‘Sometimes old tricks are the best tricks.’”

“Not in this case. Business has never been better.” He extinguished his cigarette and covered her hand with his own. “We just picked up an art museum in Puerto Rico and the two new Wynten hotels. The Truitt job is small potatoes.”

His fingertips stroked the back of her hand. Leaning closer, Faustina looked at him through her lashes and shifted her knee to meet his. “The estate’s trustees only approved the job after a break-in. You’re telling me that’s a coincidence?”

“I’m saying that clients come to us, not the other way around. We haven’t needed to drum up business in years.” His eyes roamed her face, and the corner of his mouth lifted, denting his cheek. “I presume my pistol is missing.” 

“Right again.” 

“Shouldn’t you frisk me?”

“Do I need to?”

“It pains me to admit it,” he said, his grin at odds with his words, “but no, you don’t. I haven’t touched that pistol since last Wednesday when Thierry came to see me.”

Faustina straightened abruptly and pulled her hand from Steve’s arm. “What’s Thierry doing in New York?”

“He flew over with the Truitt girl when her aunt got hurt.” Steve took another cigarette from his case and lit it.

“Thierry knows Lisle Truitt? His name wasn’t in her dossier.”

“A recent acquaintance. He tried to play it cool with Uncle Steve, but I think the boy’s head over heels for her. He had the same look Rene gets about Lorraine.”

Faustina drank deeply from her glass. “What exactly did he say to you?”

“He phoned on Tuesday, ranting about that mausoleum the Truitts call a house, full of plans to drag it into the electronic age. As you know, the trustees didn’t share his vision. But when he came by the apartment the day after, he was certain he’d win their approval. He even asked me to authorize an immediate start to the preliminary work.”

“Which you did.”

“Naturally. He’s won over tougher resistance before. After all, he is Vice President of European Operations, not to mention my godson.”

“And the son of Rene Farrand.” She picked up the bullet and turned it in her fingers. “We both know what Rene did for Lorraine. It never occurred to you Thierry would go to similar lengths for a woman he loved.”

“Did I think that Thierry might highlight the island’s vulnerabilities through a harmless demonstration?” Steve drew in, paused, then released smoke slowly through his nostrils. “Never crossed my mind.”

“I suppose he just walked off with your pistol.”

“Why not? He’s Rene’s son.”

“But why take it at all? A harmless demonstration doesn’t require firearms.”

“Bravado maybe or a good luck charm.” He put out his cigarette and stood. “How about asking the boy himself?”

They left the bar for the phones in the entryway. Steve entered a booth and called a number on the Plaza exchange, while Faustina hovered on the threshold. “Connect me with room 1820 please.” He listened for a minute, then hung up. “No answer. He could be with the Truitt girl.”

“One of our agents is with her. If he’d run into Thierry, I’d have heard about it.” 

Steve rubbed meditatively at the groove which divided his neat mustache. “Kitten, where does UNCLE come into this?”

“Two nights ago the boxes at the Gardiner Trust and Safe Deposit Company were robbed.” 

“No wonder Ivan said I had a dozen messages. We handle their security. But bank robberies are generally a police matter.”

Faustina pulled a photograph from her purse and handed it to him. “The Truitts have a box there. This was written inside.”

Steve looked at the photo. “I haven’t seen writing like that in years.” His cheek dimpled. “Smart boy.”

“Is that all you can say?” She snatched the photo from his hand and returned it to her purse. “If this blows up, it’s taking the whole company with it.”

“And it’s your job to prevent that.”

“Whatever it takes.”

Steve grinned. “Perfect.”

“That’s not a good thing.”

“A blank check is always a good thing, kitten. Besides, it means we get to spend more time together.”

“Does it?”

He wrapped his arm around her waist. “Sure it does. You’ll have to keep an eye on me. For all you know, I could be taking orders from this Thrush gang.”

“That’s not funny.”

“Lucky girl. You get to stick with me day and night.”

Her lips twitched. “I was promoted, remember? No more graveyard shifts for me.”

He laughed. “Is that a crack about my age? I’ll have you know I’m in better shape than I was seven years ago. Just say the word, and I’ll prove it.”

“Business before pleasure.” She stepped out of his embrace and headed for the coat check. 

“I prefer to blend the two,” he said, following.

“And we’ve seen where that gets you.” She handed her ticket to the attendant. “Come. Let’s check out that hotel,” she said and ignored his sly grin.

The girl behind the counter presented a short cape of cerulean mink. “You kept it,” Steve said, accepting it. He held it open with a gallant flourish. 

Faustina presented her back so he could wrap the fur around her. “Of course. It’s beautiful.”

She turned to face him, and his ready hands fastened the closure and flipped the collar up. “I’m glad you wore it.” 

“I almost didn’t. I let one of the girls at Headquarters hold it for a few minutes, and she didn’t want to give it up.”

Outside, the doorman hailed them a taxi, and they headed for midtown.

“Too bad I didn’t have my car,” Steve said and pointed his chin toward the driver. “We could have talked more easily.”

“And gotten there faster.” Her fingers worked the clasp of her purse in a tattoo of impatient clicks.

“You’re a bundle of nerves, kitten. What do I say about that?”

“You can’t shoot straight if you’re all wound up.”

“Exactly. Look at me. I’m relaxed, in good spirits,” he said, then tapped his temple, “yet my mind is busily working on our problem.”

“You know I can’t stand delay. Thierry’s in danger, and we’re taking the scenic route.”

“Got a soft spot for our boy, don’t you?”

She nodded. “And if he comes through this alive, I may kill him myself.”

When the taxi reached the hotel, Steve paid the driver, who earned his tip by sitting stoically through Faustina’s colorful commentary on his job performance. They went directly up to room 1820. Faustina’s vigorous knocking met with no response. Steve put his ear to the door, then shook his head.

Faustina took two slim tools from her clutch and quickly opened the lock. 

“Rene would be proud,” Steve said.

“A hotel lock,” she responded dismissively. “I could’ve done it with a nail file.”

Her hand returned to her purse and gripped her Beretta. At her nod, Steve opened the door, and she plunged inside to sweep the room. 

“There’s no one here,” she said as Steve closed the door.

“You know, I get a real kick out of watching you work.”

She put her weapon away. “How about showing off some of your own vaunted skills, G-man?”

“Well, it’s been a long time, but I don’t think I’m too rusty.”

They searched the room. “The maid’s been here,” Faustina said, feeling around the neatly made-up bed.

Steve peered into an empty waste bin. “And no one since then.”

He moved to the dresser, and looked through Thierry’s clothes. He held up a restaurant bill. “Thursday. I don’t see anything later than that.”

Faustina pulled a suitcase from the closet and laid it on the bed. “What’s his birthday again?”

“April 16th.”

She set the combination and sprung the lock. “That was easy, though I am disappointed in him.”

As Steve watched, she searched through the suitcase. “His wallet’s in here. And his passport.”

“Wherever he is, he doesn’t want to be identified.”

“Or recognized.” She held up a small amber bottle. “Spirit gum. There’s some hair clippings stuck to it, dark ones.”

“Well, I think the best thing to do right now,” Steve said, “is to call room service.”

“Brilliant plan. No wonder you made headlines.”

“We can make it look like Thierry was here in the hotel tonight. It won’t give him an alibi for the last few days, but that can’t be helped.” He picked up the telephone receiver. “Plus I’m starving.”

“Can you sound like Thierry?”

He wrapped the mouthpiece in his pocket square. “I can sound like Rene. That’s close enough.”

While Steve ordered two steak dinners, Faustina went into the bathroom to dampen Thierry’s toothbrush and the towels.

When she finished, Steve was stretched out on the bed, smoking a cigarette. “You know, I’ve got a hunch that the aunt’s fall wasn’t an accident. My guess is these Thrush people have an interest in the island that required getting her out of the way. Then when Thierry showed up to do a little innocent burglarizing, he ran smack into them.”

“And fired that shot.” She perched beside him on the edge of the coverlet and twisted one of his shirt studs absently.

“After that he either played along with them or was forced to do the bank job, where he wrote that warning.”

“Do you think they know who he is?”

Steve shook his head. “To them he’s probably just a thief who happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“We need to find him before they learn any different.”

“Or before his usefulness runs out.” He looked down at her fingers. “How’s your shorthand?”

She let go of the stud with a chuckle. “Lousy. Why?”

“Tomorrow my charming assistant and I are going to Truitt Island to personally oversee the project. I’ll lay odds that Thrush isn’t finished there yet.”

Faustina moved to the dresser and took her communicator from her purse. “I need to check in with Headquarters.”

“I need more cigarettes. While you talk to your boss, I’ll run down and get some.”

“Don’t pick up any blondes on the way,” she said archly as he swung his legs from the bed.

He laughed. “Just like old times” He paused to kiss her forehead as he went to the door. “Don’t worry. For the time being, I’m strictly a brunette man.”

Steve flirted with the golden-haired girl in the lobby shop and left with a pack of Viceroys and a phone number. On his way to the elevator, he stopped at a bank of telephones. He looked around casually, then stepped into the cubby. The operator connected him to a long distance number. 

“It’s Steve. I didn’t wake you up, did I? I figured. I called to tell you I’ve seen her. Yes, right now. I thought you’d want to know.”


	8. Chapter 8

Illya yawned and checked his watch in the light from the window. He frowned. The book in his right hand closed with a snap. He slipped it into his pocket as he rose from the wooden chair, then left the dining room for the hall.

A dark-suited Section III agent stood beside the closed drawing room door. At the lift of Illya’s brow, he pushed his shoulders off the paneled wall. 

“Anything to report?” Illya asked.

“Yeah. My corn is killing me.”

Illya’s lips flexed. “I will give her ten more minutes.”

“If you ask me, she’s in cahoots with my chiropodist.”

The drawing room door swung open. A woman stood on the threshold, smiling complacently. A smudge of grime marked her cheek.

“I’m finished,” Miss Barrow said, smoothing back the wisps of hair that had escaped her tight bun. “A percentage of the collection is dangerously embrittled, and this move will likely cause further deterioration. However, most of the records are pre-nineteenth century and have a comparatively stable composition.”

With a small, sharp wave of his hand, Illya rejected a further lecture on the deleterious effects of acid and ambient temperature. “This task would have been finished earlier if you had allowed us to assist you.”

“I didn’t take a red-eye from Washington to let a lot of ham-fisted laymen manhandle fragile documents.” 

Illya and the archivist glared at each other, and the Section III agent settled back on the wall to spectate the next round.

“As a quantum mechanist, I am fully capable of manipulating delicate objects. To be ham-fisted could be cataclysmic.”

Miss Barrow pushed her glasses up her nose, leaving a streak of dirt along the bridge. “I am not interested in your atomic tinkering. While you’re busy creating a brave new world, it’s my job to preserve the old one. Maybe then we can avoid its mistakes.”

Illya ran his hand through this hair. “Allen, call your team to move the cases to the boat.” He raised his brows at Miss Barrow. “Unless you plan to carry each one yourself.”

“Only if necessary.” She turned on one sensible beige heel and went back to stand guard over the documents.

Allen looked over his shoulder as he opened the front door. “Bet you ten bucks she insists on driving the cart.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Illya admonished. “She will insist on pulling it.”

He silenced Allen’s laughter with a raised hand. A growing sound entered through the open door, one at odds with the Arcadian surroundings. As it resolved into the chuff of rotors, both agents drew their Specials. “Stay with the records,” Illya barked and swept past Allen. He ran down the steps and around the house, his gaze raking the skies.

“Mr. Kuryakin, it’s all right.”

Illya looked down the hill. Lisle Truitt waved from the terrace, her yellow drop-waist dress and red stockings a vibrant splash of color amid the flagstones. He lowered his Special and jogged down the path toward her.

A while Bell helicopter marked with the de Grissac emblem crested the tree line. “Mr. Emerson,” Lisle announced loudly when Illya reached her. They watched the copter land at the far edge of the lawns. “It’s a good thing Genny’s asleep.”

Two figures emerged from the vehicle, crouching as they passed under the slowing rotors, and strode purposefully across the lawn. Illya holstered his weapon, frowning at their approach.

“I know that design,” Lisle said. “I wore it in our Fall showing.”

Illya observed Faustina’s mossy green skirt suit with a critical eye. The bias-cut fabric was tailored in clean, sculptural lines, with an asymmetrical front opening that curved from the center of the cropped jacket over to her right shoulder. A matching peaked biret cap concealed much of her ash brown hair. “You wore it better, I am sure.”

Lisle looked at him quizzically but remained quiet. 

“Out of curiosity,” he asked, “how much would such an outfit cost?”

“At Bonwit’s?” Lisle paused to think. “Head to toe, about a thousand dollars. De Grissac must pay well.”

“Someone must,” he hissed.

Steve followed Faustina through a gap in the balustrade and held out his hand. “Miss Truitt? I’m Emerson, Steve Emerson. And this is my private secretary, Miss Pemberley.”

Lisle shook his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both. This is Mr. Kuryakin of...” She looked at Illya uncertainly.

“Of the U.N.C.L.E.” He met Steve’s firm grip with his own, his cool gaze darting to Faustina. “I believe our liaison apprised you of the situation.” 

Steve looked from one agent to the other. His cheek dented. “Yes, I’ve been briefed. Thoroughly.”

Mrs. Jeffers came onto the terrace with a tray. “It’s all dust and hammering inside, Miss.”

“The music of progress,” Steve declared, staring with unabashed interest at her historical garb. “Besides, the weather’s too fine to be cooped up indoors.” 

Mrs. Jeffers eyed the bright blue autumn skies in mistrust. “My joints tell me it won’t last.”

She set the refreshments on the patio table and returned to the house. Steve pulled out the end chair for Lisle. Faustina looked at Illya expectantly. He rolled his eyes and yanked a chair back, the iron feet screeching across the flagstones. A pair of startled cardinals shot from the overhanging ash tree. Faustina chuckled, a velvety rumble that traveled no father than Illya’s ears, and perched primly on the edge of the seat. A yellow-tinged leaf fluttered down to land on her shoulder. Their reaching fingers met briefly. 

“Thank you, Mr. Kuryakin,” she said, pronouncing his name poorly. 

The leaf crumpled within his clenched fist. He took the farthest seat from her and accepted the cup of coffee Lisle passed him. “Isn’t it unusual for the company president to visit a job site?” he asked, addressing Steve. “This is not the time for a publicity stunt.”

“When you boys start talking Thrush, I figure Steve Emerson better be on hand.”

Faustina swallowed a bite of crumb cake. “De Grissac wants Miss Truitt to return to Paris confident that her aunt and the house are secure.”

“As secure as their safe deposit box?”

Steve shrugged. “I tried to convince Gardiner’s for years to contract for additional men, but they balked at the expense. These unfortunate incidents have cured their short-sightedness.”

“One might think it was an inside job.”

“One might,” Steve agreed amiably as he lit a cigarette. “Miss Pemberley sent your chief a list of anyone fired from de Grissac who might hold a grudge.” 

“What about your current employees? UNCLE would like to check them as well.”

Steve released a plume of smoke. “And make them work under a cloud of suspicion? Not on your life. False accusations are a terrible thing. I should know.”

Beneath the table, Faustina prodded Steve with a green Julianelli pump. Illya watched through the glass top, and his eyebrow raised. 

“Of course,” Illya said. “The French police once thought you involved in the theft of the de Grissac emerald.”

“And they were completely embarrassed when I helped unmask the real thief.”

“That did prove to be an inside job.”

“A cousin desperate to cover his gambling debts.” Steve’s hand froze, his cup halfway to his lips. He looked at Illya sharply. “UNCLE isn’t suggesting that a member of the Truitt family is involved?”

The color that drained from Lisle’s face flooded Illya’s. “Not at all. We only wish to consider every possibility.”

Steve smiled at Lisle. “While they leave no stone unturned, let me assure you, Miss Truitt, that our best men are on this job, and each one’s identity is verified before stepping foot on this island.” He looked over Illya’s shoulder. “Speaking of which, who is this?”

Illya turned his head. “One of my men.”

“You sure? It seems to me I’ve seen him before.”

“I am quite sure.”

“Just one of those faces, I guess.”

Allen gave a general nod to the group and addressed Illya. “The cases are ready for the boat.”

“I will be right there.” 

As Allen left, Illya slipped the book from his coat pocket and set it beside his half-finished coffee. “An interesting volume. Someday, when I have more time, I would like to finish it.”

Steve picked it up. _“The Truitts of Truitt Island_ by Robert Lionel Truitt.”

“Genny’s father,” Lisle said. “Much of the information comes from those records UNCLE’s taking.”

“Confiscating files?” Steve said.

Illya frowned. “Cataloging documents. They will be returned shortly, in better condition than when they left.” With a terse farewell, he rose to leave, wincing slightly as his chair scraped the flagstones. “Miss Truitt, would you come with me? There is paperwork to sign.”

Lisle excused herself and accompanied Illya up the path to the front drive. “So that’s the boyfriend,” Steve said. He hummed a Rogers and Hart refrain.

Faustina pulled her gaze from Illya’s departing back. “Not my type.”

“Nope, but he has the look.”

“What look?”

“The one that says he can’t decide which he’d rather do, kiss you or kill you. I recall that dilemma.”

A wide grin stretched across her face, then contracted. “He’s been digging into your history.”

“And convinced himself it was for purely professional reasons.”

She poked at her crumb cake with her fork. “I’m supposed to be shielding Rene, not driving people right to him.”

“Relax, kitten. Those Truitt records should keep him occupied for a while, and if need be, we’ll just pass on more names of former employees. We’ll keep him busy.”

Her lips twitched. “He hates wild goose chases.”

“Then you’re the last woman he should fall for.” Steve crushed his cigarette on his plate and stood. “Come on. Let’s prowl around.”

They were behind the original house, Faustina doodling in a steno pad along to Steve’s meaningless technical comments, when Lisle rounded the corner. Steve caught her attention. “I hear you have concerns about the security system.”

“Not in general,” she said, “just about this part of the house.”

“Could we see inside?”

Lisle nodded and led them around to the front. “How much do you know about my aunt, Mr. Emerson?”

“I know she prefers to live in the past. With the current world situation, who can blame her?”

“Genny tolerates few intrusions of modern life. If you put an alarm in here, I’m afraid she may cut the wires and pull it out.”

“Don’t worry. We’ve put a system in a castle, and you’d never know it was there.” 

They climbed the steps and entered the paneled hall. Steve tapped a knuckle on the walls and peered curiously up the narrow staircase. “So this is the mausoleum.” 

“Pardon me?” Lisle said, a slight catch in her voice.

“That’s what Thierry called it.”

She searched Steve’s face, then matched the casual amusement in his dark blue eyes. “Yes, among other things.”

She ushered them into the drawing room. The cabinet doors that flanked the fireplace were open, revealing the emptied shelves. “From the way he talked, you’d think this was the lost continent. Is he always so quick to dramatize?”

Steve examined a window frame, pointing meaningfully to parts as Faustina continued to doodle. “Ever since he was a boy. Never knew a kid with such an active imagination.” He grinned at Lisle. “Not about you though. You’re as lovely as he said.” 

She acknowledged the compliment with a dip of her chin, graceful but mechanical. “He was impetuous too, I guess.”

“Very. Wasn’t he, Miss Pemberley?”

“Yes,” Faustina said, lifting her eyes from the pad. “He was always rushing headlong into one scrape or another.”

“Miss Pemberley is an old friend of the family,” Steve declared, resting his hand on her shoulder. “My motto is, ‘Surround yourself with people you can trust.’”

Lisle adjusted a bracelet. “I’d hoped Thierry would come with you today to see how the work was going.”

“Haven’t seen him in a few days. When there was no answer at his hotel last night, frankly, Miss Truitt, I assumed he had found more agreeable accommodations.”

She shook her head. “We had dinner together on Thursday, but he hasn’t called me since. I’m beginning to think I’ve gotten the brush off.”

“Last I saw him was Wednesday afternoon.” He stared out the window, tapping a cigarette against his gold case. Then he turned to Faustina. “Call headquarters. I want the Commissioner himself, not a Deputy.”

“That will mean publicity.”

He lit his cigarette. “It can’t be helped.”

Faustina closed her pad. “Where’s your phone?” she asked Lisle.

Lisle ignored her, her anxious hazel eyes fixed on Steve. “You mean the Police Commissioner, don’t you?” 

“I don’t want to alarm you, Miss Truitt,” Steve said, “but I’m concerned about Thierry. Impetuous or not, it’s not like him to disappear.”

She gripped the back of the joined-oak armchair. “You think something’s happened to him?”

“I think we have to find out.”

“But the police? It’s so…official. Thierry said you were a government agent once. Couldn’t you do something?”

“Call in favors, ask around, that sort of thing?” Smoke streamed from his long nose. “I could. But I’ll need somewhere to start. It seems to me that Thursday was the last time anyone saw Thierry. What happened that night?”

“Nothing unusual. We had dinner, talked, then he went back to the city.”

“You’re sure he left the island?”

“Yes, I saw him off at the dock.”

“And he just disappeared into the night.” Steve took another long drag on his cigarette. “No, it’s no good. Back in the Bureau, I’d have put a dozen men on a case like this. We’ve lost several days already. Without a lead, I’ll be wasting more time. Miss Pemberley, you’d better make that call.”

“You can’t,” Lisle implored. “He’ll be in terrible trouble.”

“More than he’s in now?” 

“Yes.”

“Trouble I can handle. I won’t be much help if he’s dead.”

Lisle’s knees buckled, and she sagged against the heavy chair. Faustina ran to her side and helped her onto the seat. 

Steve approached with a flask. “Here, give her this.”

Faustina coaxed the bourbon between Lisle’s lips. Lisle coughed, and her face lost some of its pallor. When she refused another drink, Faustina withdrew her supporting arm, and Lisle reclined against the carved back panel, her elegant posture temporarily abandoned. 

“Now, Miss Truitt,” Steve said, “tell us exactly what sort of trouble my godson has gotten into, and we’ll do our best to get him out of it.”

“It’s all my fault. He did it for me.”

“He’s not the first man to do something foolish in the name of love.”

“He was so frustrated when the trustees refused to consider improvements for the house. He said they were the kind of men who only learned the hard way.” 

“Ah-ha. Light begins to dawn.”

“At dinner Thursday, he told me you were going ahead with the job. When I asked him about the funding, he just smiled and said to trust him. Then before he left, he said, ‘Don’t worry if you hear any strange noises tonight.’”

“What did you think he meant?”

“Isn’t it obvious? He was going to sneak back onto the island and make it look like we’d been robbed. I should have stopped him, but it seemed so…” She turned pleading eyes to Faustina. 

“Romantic?” Faustina supplied.

Lisle nodded. 

“I get it. Thierry always liked a good swashbuckler. He’d make a very appealing Robin Hood,” Faustina said, “or pirate.”

Lisle buried her face in her hands. “Oh, God.”

“What happened Thursday night?” Steve asked.

She looked up at him. “I stayed awake for a while, reading and listening. I must have dozed off because the next thing I knew, a loud noise woke me up.” Her gaze slid from his face, and her voice dropped. “It sounded like a shot.”

“How many?”

“Just one, I think. Our night watchman often fires a shot in the night. He says he’s warning off intruders. We all know that’s a lie, but he’s so eager to be useful that we just ignore it. This time I figured he had spotted Thierry.” 

She sat up straighter and smoothed her yellow dress. “In the morning, we found this room a wreck. I had to act concerned for the Jeffers’ benefit, but really it was a thrill. Like a school prank.” She gave a harsh spurt of laughter. “That didn’t last long. Thierry wasn’t answering the phone or responding to my messages. I kept hoping he would show up here. He never did.”

“You kept the cops out of it to protect him,” Steve said.

She nodded. “I told the trustees how stupid they’d look if the press learned they refused to spend money on protecting a vulnerable woman. They agreed to fund the project and not report the robbery to the police.” 

“Then in walked UNCLE,” Faustina said.

Lisle gripped the chair’s arms, her nails pressing into the dark oak. “I tried to put them off as best as I can, but it won’t work much longer. They think some sort of criminal masterminds are at work.” 

“But you think it was Thierry.”

“I don’t know what to think anymore. It’s all such a nightmare.” She lifted tear-filled eyes. “Mr. Emerson, what’s going on?”

Steve passed her his handkerchief. “If you’d like to know my guess, I think you’re both right. Thrush wants something on this island. First your aunt, then Thierry, got in their way.”

“So that shot…” Her color ebbed. Faustina pressed the open flask into her hand, and she took a swig.

“He’s not dead, Miss Truitt. He’s been kidnapped. Those Thrush thugs are using him to get what they want.” 

“What do we do?”

“Find out what they’re after, and get our hands on it first,” Steve said breezily.

“Shouldn’t we tell UNCLE?” Lisle asked.

“UNCLE will be falling over themselves to get this Thrush gang in handcuffs, and anyone associated with them.” He pointed his thumb at his chest. “Me, Steve Emerson, my priority is getting Thierry back safe and sound, and without a blot on his record. I know where Miss Pemberley stands. What about you, Miss Truitt?”

Lisle squared her shoulders. “I want to save Thierry.”

“Then I suggest we search this house from top to bottom.”

“What about UNCLE? Mr. Solo will be back this afternoon.”

Faustina took back the flask and screwed on the cap. “Let us worry about that. Mr. Solo will learn what he needs to carry out his assignment.” She looked pointedly at Steve. “And nothing else.”


	9. Chapter 9

“The Truitt records are here, sir,” Illya said. “Professor Bergner is on his way from YIT.”

“Did you encounter any difficulties?” Waverly asked as he stirred the ash in his briar pipe.

“No.” 

Waverly lifted widened eyes. “You sound disappointed.”

“I have the feeling that whatever Thrush is after, it is still on that island.”

“Quite possibly. But since Miss Truitt has refused a survey-and-protect, our options are limited. Our best hope now is that she will confide more in Mr. Emerson than she has in Mr. Solo.”

“Emerson is not a man to inspire confidence,” Illya said, folding his arms. “He is more like a dealer of used cars.”

Waverly placed his thumb over the pipe bowl and shook it gently. “Miss Pemberley reports the three of them are searching the house.”

“Can we trust Emerson?” Illya asked with a frown.

“Not to the ends of the earth, certainly, but far enough. Miss Pemberley is keeping an eye on him.”

“Who is keeping an eye on her?” Illya muttered. When Waverly raised an inquiring brow, he said, “De Grissac appears a generous employer.”

“They can afford to be,” Waverly replied dryly, as he tapped out his pipe into the ash tray. “Are you considering a career in the private sector, Mr. Kuryakin?”

“No, sir. I was thinking of Miss Pemberley. There is something…proprietary about Emerson’s behavior toward her.” 

“I’m glad to hear it. That attitude is to our advantage.”

“And if he offers her a position?”

“She’s free to resign, of course, but I think it unlikely. Allow me to know my agents better than you, Mr. Kuryakin. I would not have promoted her if I thought she would desert for greater remuneration.” Waverly fed a long cleaner into the pipe stem. “Speaking of which, our Finance people tell me you haven’t turned in your latest expense report.” 

“Thrush has kept us very busy.”

Waverly harrumphed. “Mr. Solo has orders to see that all reports are turned in today. He’s expecting you.”

Dismissed, Illya departed the conference room for the gunmetal corridor which housed the Section II offices. Mark Slate sat behind Napoleon’s desk, hunched over a form. Napoleon stood beside him, hands in pockets, head cocked, monitoring his progress.

“Mr. Waverly’s on the war path,” Napoleon said as Illya entered their office. “I need you to fill out your expense report.”

“So I was told.” Illya glanced at the few receipts scattered in front of Mark. “Did you forget as well?”

“Can’t afford to. This is Faustina’s. She’s terrible about these things.” He laughed. “Back in London—”

“This is all?” Illya interjected, looking more closely at the receipts. 

“’Tis what was in her desk.”

“There are none for clothing.”

“Perhaps she’s more careful than you two,” Mark said with a flash of his elfin grin.

Napoleon twisted his lips, then looked at his partner. “Why the sudden interest?”

“She has an expensive wardrobe.”

“Something wrong with that?” Napoleon asked defensively.

Mark smoothed his primrose tie. “A bit conventional, but I think she looks smashing.”

“To accept gifts from an outside source is a violation of regulations,” Illya said. “Chapter 6, Section 3, Para—”

“You needn’t recite it, mate. We’re familiar with it.”

“There’s also a section about reports.” The sweep of Napoleon’s finger targeted both agents. “Some things are ‘more honored in the breach than the observance.’”

“Today’s ensemble cost a thousand dollars.”

“You asked her?”

Mark picked up another receipt and murmured in a raspy, indolent voice, “Hey, mama. Nice threads. How much they set you back?”

“I did not ask Faustina,” Illya said testily. “I asked Miss Truitt.”

Mark shrugged. “Bargain basement knockoffs can be quite convincing. According to April, that is.”

Napoleon set his arm atop the tall file cabinet and rested his cheek against his knuckles. “Maybe she’s got a rich aunt. I highly recommend them.” 

“I’ve an aunt, a pensioner in Brighton,” Mark said. “Knits me a jumper at Christmas.”

Illya eased the chair from under his desk and sat. “Faustina has no relatives.”

“You know that how?” Napoleon asked.

“She must have told me.”

“I didn’t know you two had gotten so close.”

“Merely a passing remark on her part.”

“Ah. Well, as Chief Enforcement Agent, I’m familiar with her full profile, but it would be inappropriate of me to divulge it.”

Mark leaned back. “I’m not CEA. We once traded life stories over drinks.” He laced his fingers behind his head and squeezed his eyes shut. “Could be the Guinness talking, lads, but as I recall, her father was a minor official in the diplomatic service. He married well, so there was money at one time. Her parents died in a plane crash when she was seventeen.” He looked back at Napoleon. “How am I doing so far?”

Napoleon dipped his chin.

“She lost the plot for a bit after that. Spent a few years living high on what her parents left her.” 

“You see? Family money,” Napoleon said. “Maybe she didn’t run through it all.”

“A decidedly unimpressive résumé,” Illya said.

Mark returned to the form. “It satisfied the Old Man. He started her in Translation in New Delhi. She’s not as adept at languages as April, but, as she says herself, she has ‘a way with a foreign tongue.’” He grinned cheekily.

Illya rolled his eyes, then opened a drawer and pulled out a small yellow expense book marked with the UNCLE emblem.

Mark looked at the record book wistfully and picked up another receipt. “Excelsior Hotel. Travel or Entertaining?”

“What?” Illya asked sharply.

“Hang on, she told me about this one.” His wicked chuckle dissolved into a cough at Illya’s dark stare. “Entertaining,” he stated, green eyes dancing, and added it to the form.

Napoleon checked his watch. “Can I rely on you two to get those reports turned in to Finance?”

Illya’s brow shot up. “Mr. Waverly said you were responsible for that.”

“Now that you’ve brought this other matter to my attention, I feel it should take priority.” He smiled. “I’ll head over to Truitt Island right now and, ah, check labels.”

Faustina turned off her penlight and stooped to clear the lintel of the large open hearth. 

“Any luck?”

At the sudden question, she started and struck her head on the bricks. “Dammit, Steve, don’t sneak up on people in fireplaces.”

Laughing, Steve took her elbow and helped her out. “Sorry, kitten. Should I kiss it?”

She gently shook off his hand and patted the snug coil of hair at her crown. “I’m just glad it wasn’t my new hat.”

“You haven’t done my coat any favors.”

“All for nothing,” she said, brushing soot from the striped green flannel. “I haven’t found a thing that would appeal to Thrush’s criminal instincts.”

Steve crossed his arms, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow, and looked Faustina over. His cheek dented. “The last time you wore my coat like this, you’d jumped from the helicopter into Maxwell’s swimming pool.”

She smiled. “You refused to jump with me.”

“A diving board is good enough for Steve Emerson. Besides, that ham actor was happy to oblige.”

“Poor Emiliano. He almost landed on the patio.” She shook her head. “Armand hated directing him. A handsome face but no sense of timing.”

“No subtlety either. The Duchesse wasn’t happy with all the attention he paid you.”

“She had your shoulder to cry on. At least that’s where you said all those blond hairs came from.”

He threw his hands out. “I never could disregard a woman in tears. It’s the Galahad in me. And what do I get for my chivalry? An ashtray aimed at my head.”

“Now we’re even,” she said, giving her hair another pat. “Did you find anything?”

“Lots. I saw a warming pan, the very tarnish of which would give the local historical society palpitations.”

“Anything inside it?”

“Cobwebs.”

“Well, whatever Thrush wants, it isn’t bigger than a breadbox. Perhaps you should go be Sir Galahad for Lady Lisle so I can slice into the backs of pictures.”

“I’d rather stay and help you.”

She pointed to a brick archway in the corner. “I’ve only got the root cellar left.”

“Looks gloomy. I could hold your hand.”

“I’m not afraid of the dark.”

“I am. You can hold mine.”

“Mr. Emerson. Miss Pemberley.” Lisle’s voice, tremulous with excitement, carried down from the floor above. “I found something.”

Faustina slipped out of Steve’s coat and tossed it to him as they headed for the stairs. Lisle stood at the top of the narrow climb, a large brown envelope clutched in her hand. With an urgent wave, she led them up to her aunt’s bedroom. The sun cast its stark light onto every crowded surface. Lisle ignored the hoard of artifacts and stopped at the end of the four poster bed. 

“This was in Genny’s mail, the stuff she hasn’t opened yet. It’s the round robin letter.” Lisle upended the envelope and shook it. A dozen paper-clipped packets slid onto the crewel-work coverlet, a jumble of handwritten notes, typed sheets, photos, and clippings.

“I’ve heard of these,” Faustina said, sifting through the pile.

“I haven’t,” Steve said. “What is all this?”

“Letters and things to share. You change out your contribution, then send it along to the next person.”

Lisle took a photograph from the pile and handed it to Steve. “Genny and her friends started it after graduation. It’s been going for decades.”

He looked at the women in shirtwaists and tricorne hats. “What’s the Jolyon Goode Society?” he asked, pointing to the handwritten caption.

“A fan club for a pirate. They formed it in college, mostly as a joke. The older Genny got, the more seriously she took it.”

Steve exchanged the photograph for a single thick sheet covered in elegant whorls. Clever little sketches decorated the margins. “This looks like it was written with a quill pen.”

“It was.”

Faustina took it from him and skimmed the page. “She says how nice it was to see a few of them at the June meeting and describes a set of sleeve-links the Society recently acquired.” She flipped over the page, but found the back empty. “There’s nothing else.”

“That’s because a page is missing.” Lisle moved to a bureau desk and lowered the front. Two rows of drawers were flanked by cubbies stuffed with rolled papers. She slid one out and gave it to Faustina. “She always makes a copy. There’s supposed to be another page in there.”

Faustina unfurled the sheet and read aloud. “I close with glad tidings. Dear friends, I have discovered Iphigenia’s diary. The particulars of this most fortunate event I reserve for another day. My hand trembles so, I can scarcely form the letters to impart this brief account, such is my excitement. Her poor spirit, long silent and bereft, speaks once more. Page after page tells of the Captain, a reservoir of consolation to draw upon after their parting. He is a greater man than we believed. Such courage. Such nobility. This gallant lover would never commit the foul deeds ascribed to him. Never! The record contained in this diary may at long last exonerate him. The blessings of innocence will be made greater still, for the survivor’s portion remains on these shores. How eagerly I desire to look upon it. But no, it is the Captain’s prize and his to uncover. Like his beloved, it awaits the day he will return to claim it. Even now he makes course. He comes anon.”

Faustina handed the page to Steve. “She has a way with words.” 

“It beats the weather and lumbago. But what does this have to do with Thrush?” 

“Captain Goode used this island to hide his treasure,” Lisle said. “The British found out about it, but legend says one of his crew made off with a single chest before the rest was confiscated.”

Faustina tapped a sketch of a wooden box. “The survivor’s portion.”

Lisle nodded. “Genny thinks it’s still somewhere on the island.”

“So that’s what they’re after,” Steve said, rolling up the sheet. “Buried treasure.”

“And that diary is the map. ”

“Do you think they have it?” Lisle asked.

Steve stroked the groove that divided his mustache. “Maybe. Maybe not. Would she keep it with the other records?”

“No, I think she’d keep it in here. But I didn’t see any diary.”

“Can’t you ask her where it is?” Faustina said.

“Not right now. She had another bad night, so the nurse gave her something to help her rest.” Lisle sighed. “She’s desperately afraid she’ll miss the Captain’s return.”

Steve surveyed the room with a determined gleam. “At least now we know what we’re looking for.”

“These are Genny’s prized possessions,” Lisle said, her hazel eyes uneasy. 

Faustina slid the scroll from Steve’s grasp. “We’ll be careful.” 

“Don’t worry,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Did Thierry ever show you de Grissac’s headquarters?”

“No, just his Paris office.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. He thinks the chateau’s a mausoleum too. You can’t swing a cat in there without hitting an antique.”

Lisle pointed to the desk. “The envelope was in there. I didn’t see a diary.”

“What about the secret drawer? This type usually has one.”

Steve moved the pewter standish and with his fingertips examined the oak surface behind the worn leather inlay. With a click, a panel slid back. 

“Mr. Emerson, that was amazing,” Lisle breathed.

Steve felt inside the cavity. “It would be more amazing if there was something in it. Well, on with the hunt.”

The desk yielded only Society correspondence; the bed, stray feathers. Steve thumped the wooden fireplace surround, listening for hollow spaces, while Faustina and Lisle searched through a massive wardrobe. 

“What’s wrong?” Faustina asked, taking a stack of linen chemises from Lisle’s arms.

With a small shake of her head, Lisle came out of her daze. “That page didn’t get lost, did it? Someone took it out deliberately.”

“Probably.”

“That means one of them is working with Thrush. I can’t believe it. They’re grandmothers, for Pete’s sake.”

“Don’t let that fool you,” Steve said. “One of the toughest gangs I ever went up against was led by a grandmother.”

The stairs creaked, and Mrs. Jeffers put her head into the room. 

“Pardon me, Miss,” she said. “Mason called from the boathouse to say Mr. Solo just docked.”

“Thank you. I’ll be right down.” As Mrs. Jeffers’ footsteps receded, Lisle shut the door. “He’s early.”

“Now get this,” Steve said. “You keep him occupied while we finish searching.”

“Should I tell him about the letter?”

“Not yet. If we find that diary, we’ll have the jump on Thrush and UNCLE.”

Lisle’s anxious eyes brightened. “And we could trade it for Thierry.” She touched a drooping platinum curl. “I’d better freshen up, or Mr. Solo might get suspicious.”

When Lisle had left, Faustina crossed to Steve and poked him in the chest. “Whose show is this?”

“Yours, kitten.” He rested his hands on her shoulders. “Why? Did you have a different plan in mind?”

“No,” she admitted. “But we’re here for Thierry, not treasure. Don’t lose your head.”

His lips stretched into his wide, shark-like grin. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”


	10. Chapter 10

“Are you sure?” Faustina said into her communicator.

“We’ve no alternative. We must get that diary, and Mr. Solo is the best candidate to discover its whereabouts.” Waverly’s words were accompanied by the sound of papers shuffling. “Besides, it’s time for him to work off these boat rentals and French restaurants.”

“He won’t want to talk to her.”

“I have every confidence in your ability to adjust his attitude.”

Faustina closed her communicator and turned off the tap, halting the splosh of water into the pedestal sink. She slipped her biret cap over her coiled hair and touched up her face, then left the powder room, a green leather handbag over her elbow.

As she came out onto the terrace, Steve dropped his cigarette and crushed it under his shoe. “What did he say?”

“He wants Solo to talk to Genny. Napoleon bears a certain resemblance to the Captain. That might persuade her to tell him where the diary’s hidden.”

Steve rested his hand on her shoulder. “You look concerned, kitten. Why? You’ve juggled three men before.”

“Yes, but the novelty wore off quickly.”

“Feel like one of those mugs that spins plates?”

“Or a ringmaster.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “And this circus has four acts going. Don’t forget about Lisle.”

He nudged her fingers away and massaged the tense muscles. She groaned. “Mmm. That’s the spot. You were always good at this.”

“What you need tonight is a cold bottle and a bird.”

She looked up at him through her lashes. “Dom Pérignon Rosé and pheasant under glass?”

“Whatever you like. Ivan can arrange it.” His cheek dented. “And after dinner I could give you a real back rub. How does that sound?”

“Very tempting,” she sighed, “and very distracting.” She turned aside, and his hand fell away. 

“Back to the trenches?” He shrugged. “If you insist. What’s the plan?”

“It should be Lisle’s brilliant idea to ask Napoleon.”

“That can be arranged.” He waved his hand toward the downward slope. “They’re in the conservatory. She must be getting desperate if she’s showing him flowers.”

They descended the stone steps which traced the meandering perimeter of the house. As they rounded an octagonal projection, a roof of iron and glass came into view. Shimmering reflections undulated across the panes. Faustina smiled. “I think she knows what she’s doing.”

The steps diverged, the right-hand set leading to the end of the conservatory. A Victorian Truitt, more interested in health than horticulture, had installed a narrow swimming pool amid the foliage. As Steve and Faustina descended further, a gap in the greenery provided a view of Lisle emerging from the water. Her silver bikini would slide easily through a wedding ring. Napoleon waited by the ladder, holding a robe. He wrapped it around her and pulled her close. Lisle lifted her face and received a brief kiss.

Steve began to hum. At Faustina’s inquiring glance, he intoned, “When she isn’t near the boy she loves, she loves the boy she’s near.”

“All that’s for Thierry.” Faustina watched Lisle pull a swim cap from her platinum curls and return for a longer embrace. “If you’ve got to make a sacrifice, that’s the way to do it.”

“Is that experience talking or observation?”

“Observation…for now.”

“I sense an interesting story in that pause. I hope it goes well with pheasant.”

Lisle left Napoleon’s arms and vanished into the verdure, then reappeared through the door at the end of the conservatory. She looked up at the pair on the steps and called in to Napoleon, who lowered himself onto a lounge chair. As she ran lightly up the stairs, Steve and Faustina withdrew behind the octagonal room to await her. 

“Did you find anything?” Lisle asked eagerly.

Steve shook his head. “I think it’s time to ask your aunt.”

Her long hazel eyes grew anxious. “I could try after her lunchtime, but she’ll want to know what‘s going on. If Genny gets upset, the nurse will kick me out.”

“Actually, we had a different idea. In that letter, your aunt said something about the Captain’s return. Does she really believe that?”

Lisle looked at the house and tightened the belt of her terrycloth robe. “Whether she expects a ghost, a reincarnation, or a descendant, I’m not sure. I don’t know that even she could tell you. But she’s convinced Goode won’t rest until he’s reunited with his treasure and his lost love. As Iphigenia’s namesake, she thinks she’s destined to be a part of that.”

“So if the Captain did return, she’d show him the diary.”

Her gaze swung back to Steve. “Oh, yes. But how does that help us?”

He pointed his thumb at his chest. “You’re looking at the finest Pirate King that Tait College ever saw. Our _Penzance_ is still talked about.”

“You mean, you’d pretend to be Captain Goode?” Lisle frowned. “She’ll be devastated when she finds out we fooled her.”

Faustina squeezed Lisle’s arm. “She might also think it a side-effect of her sedation, like a fever dream.”

“Remember, there’s already been one attempt on her life,” Steve said.

Lisle nodded. “You’re right. It could be the only way.” She considered Steve critically. “But you don’t look like Goode. She’s more likely to think you’re his sworn enemy. That won’t get us far.” 

He spread out his hands. “If not me, then who?”

Lisle peeked back at the conservatory. “If we can persuade him to do it, I think Mr. Solo would be the perfect choice. But we’ll have to tackle him just right.”

Faustina reached behind Steve and patted his back.

“Bergner was rapturous,” Illya said through the transceiver. “I have never before seen a man shed tears over an account of garden produce.”

“I once saw you grow misty about a test tube,” Napoleon replied.

“Do not be ridiculous.”

Napoleon peered down the lounge chair at his black ankle boots, assessing the state of their shine. “He find anything?”

“He has been working for less than an hour, and only with the documents that have been catalogued. That archivist deemed all but a few technicians worthy of assisting her. She barred the doors on the rest of us.”

“The Tyrant of the Laboratory, huh?” Napoleon smiled. “Sounds like you’ve got competition.”

Illya muttered something darkly in Russian.

“I heard that.”

“But did you understand it?”

The conservatory door rattled. Napoleon swung his feet onto the floor. “Hang on, someone’s here.” 

Faustina stepped out of the palms. “‘Dr. Livingstone, I presume?’”

“It’s just Faustina,” he said, returning his legs to the cushion.

She flicked her gaze to the ceiling, a small crease between her brows. “No, I don’t think that’s how it goes.”

“You expect too much of him,” Illya said tartly. “It is ‘I feel thankful I am here to welcome you.’ The exchange is likely apocryphal.”

“I knew that,” Napoleon said. “Get your expense report turned in?”

“I did.”

Faustina dropped her handbag onto a small table, then shooed Napoleon’s boots over and sat beside them. “Did Mark finish mine?”

“Yes,” Illya hissed.

“I hope he added correctly. One time he forgot to carry the two, and I ended up owing money.”

“That is doubtful. But if you are so concerned about accuracy, perhaps you should do it yourself.” The channel closed with a click.

Napoleon slid his communicator into his jacket as his brown eyes, alight with admiration, regarded her cap-a-pie. “This Affair looks good on you.”

“Thanks. You look well-accommodated yourself.” 

“We might as well enjoy the amenities while they last.” He indicated her outfit with a flourish of his hand. “Was this delightful ensemble Emerson’s idea?”

She smoothed the textured green nylon that hugged her knee. “Steve likes de Grissac to maintain a certain image.”

“All that for one day? I envy his expense account.”

“He took it out of petty cash,” she said with a laugh.

Napoleon quirked his brows, then smiled. “Why don’t we celebrate its decommissioning over dinner.”

“Oh, it won’t be mothballed.” She held out a three-quarter sleeve. “Look, already shortened for the next girl.” 

“Handy.”

Faustina shed her pumps and curled her legs beneath her. “Steve is very clever. You should have seen him handle Lisle Truitt. One minute we’re touring the old house, talking about the security system, and the next minute we’re searching it. Lisle gave up easily, but not Steve. Once he gets hold of something, he doesn’t let go. It’s the terrier in him.”

Napoleon’s lips twisted. “Find anything?”

“Did we ever,” she declared. “Steve’s filling Lisle in right now.”

“Would you, ah, care to share it with me?”

“Of course. Mr. Waverly wants you to deliver the papers to him.” 

“More papers?”

She nodded and leaned forward. “You’ll never guess what’s on this island.”

“Pirate treasure.”

She patted his shin. “And Illya says I expect too much of you.”

Napoleon tore his gaze from the manicured fingers resting on his gray dupioni trouser leg. “Treasure? Really?”

“That’s what Genny Truitt thinks. And she told her ‘pirate-teers’ all about it. You’re to bring the information on the Society to headquarters pronto.” 

His face scrunched. “What about the treasure?”

“Steve and I are working on that.” She looked through the glass wall behind him and hopped from the lounge chair. “Here he comes now,” she gushed, slipping into her pumps.

Napoleon straightened his legs and folded his arms across his chest. “I can’t wait to meet him.”

With a rattle of the door and a rustle of palms, Lisle returned, clad once again in her modish yellow dress and red stockings. Her arm was tucked beneath the elbow of a tall, trim man with hooded blue eyes. The air of complacency, implied in his many newspaper photos, was more conspicuous in person. 

“Mr. Emerson, this is Napoleon Solo of UNCLE,” Lisle said. Her gaze rested on the agent momentarily before it fluttered back to her escort.

Steve waved his free hand in an amiable salute. “We met a colleague of yours earlier. What are you boys, a tag team?”

Before Napoleon could respond, Lisle addressed Faustina, her low tones throbbing with suppressed excitement. “Did you tell him?” 

“Yes,” Faustina replied as she crossed to stand at Steve’s other elbow.

Lisle turned starry eyes to Napoleon. “Buried treasure. Can you believe it? And it involved the Jolyon Goode Society after all.” She clung more tightly to her cavalier. “Steve figured out the whole thing.”

Napoleon smiled without sincerity. “UNCLE appreciates his assistance.”

“Happy to help,” Steve declared breezily. “When you’ve worked at this racket as long as I have, some things are self-evident. You’ll find out when you’ve a few more years of experience under your belt.”

“I, ah, look forward to it.”

“So now I just need to get the whereabouts of the diary from Aunt Genny.”

“Diary?” Napoleon asked.

“Genny found Ifigenia’s diary,” Lisle said. “She was the Captain’s true love.”

“I know. You told me.”

“That’s right, I did. Well, in the diary Ifigenia talks about the treasure.”

“This diary is what your Thrush mugs have been after,” Steve declared.

Napoleon snapped his fingers. “That thought just crossed my mind.”

“Unfortunately we didn’t find it when we were looking around.”

“But Steve’s had the most marvelous idea,” Lisle said. “He’s going to pretend to be Captain Goode so Genny will tell him where she hid the diary.”

Napoleon sprang from the lounge chair with an athleticism that contradicted his cool insouciance. “I don’t mean to be impolite, but wasn’t the Captain, well, younger?”

“Age is a state of mind,” Steve replied.

Napoleon stuck one hand in his trouser pocket and, tilting his head from side to side, considered Steve. “If you want my opinion, he seems more like Blackbeard or that fellow Corvair.”

Lisle disengaged her arm and stepped back to view Steve. “Corvus? Do you think so?”

“What does that matter?” Steve asked. “One pirate is like another.”

“Goode isn’t a pirate, not to her aunt.” Napoleon raised an admonishing finger. “You can’t waltz in with a ‘Shiver me timbers” and expect to fool her. She knows this man better than anyone alive. To pull this off, she’d have to be convinced the moment she sets eyes on you.”

Lisle floated to Napoleon’s side and held his arm. “Oh, thank you.”

His lips curved reflexively, but his brown eyes held consternation. “You’re welcome. What did I do?”

“Don’t be so modest. You’re absolutely right. Genny thought you were the Captain from the first. She’s sure to do so again.”

Steve made a small bow. “I surrender the role to a more worthy player.”

Napoleon gaze travelled from Lisle’s chic gratitude to Steve’s shark-like grin to Faustina’s wide-eyed innocence. He swallowed. “Can we eat lunch first?”


	11. Chapter 11

Lisle peeked around the door into a narrow, utilitarian room, a housemaid’s lodging in an earlier era.

“You’ve hardly touched your food,” the nurse said, removing the lunch tray from the bed. In deference to her patient’s idiosyncrasies, she wore a long white pinafore which swept the floor. “Really, Miss Truitt, you must eat more if you are going to build up your strength.” 

“Aunt Genny, I’ve brought you a visitor,” Lisle announced, then stepped back to allow the nurse to pass. 

“Ten minutes, Miss Lisle,” the nurse said. She eyed Napoleon in disapproval. “And no excitement.”

Lisle and Napoleon murmured their assent and entered the sickroom. A modern hospital bed consumed most of the space. The rest was occupied by a hard-backed chair and a table holding medicinal items and a vase of conservatory flowers.

An elderly woman, spindly and pallid, lay propped up in the bed, her long eyes closed, her mouth in a sullen frown. Wisps of frizzy white hair escaped the confines of a lace-trimmed cap. A linen chemise was just visible above the bedsheets which covered her from chest to the end of one leg. The other limb, encased in plaster, was held in traction.

“Aunt Genny,” Lisle said coaxingly, “there’s someone here to see you.”

Genny slowly opened her eyes, then gasped. Her trembling hand sought the trapeze bar. “Captain?” she twittered breathlessly as she pulled herself up.

“Ahoy there, my lass,” Napoleon said with forced heartiness. He approached the bed and gestured to the network of cables and pulleys. “When I heard you’d had an accident, I set sail immediately. I would have gotten here sooner, but the, ah, winds weren’t favorable.” 

He kissed her free hand. Genny peered at him as he bent closer. Her face crumpled, and her brown eyes dimmed. She slumped back against the pillows. “Oh, ‘tis you.” 

“Yes, it’s me. Captain Goode, your brave buccaneer”—he checked at Lisle’s hist—“I mean, privateer.” 

“You are the gentleman whose vessel didst run aground off our coast.”

“Yes,” he said slowly, scrunching his face. “My thoughts were so consumed with seeing you that I didst forget about the shoals.”

Genny plucked at the bedsheets, dragging them further up her chest. “Get you hence. I don’t want you.”

Napoleon spread his arms in appeal. “But I’ve crossed the bounding main to be hither,” he protested, struggling to give his words an archaic patina. “You spoke of precious things that mine eyes shouldst look upon. To my regret I couldst not tarry then, but I am returned to see them now.” 

“You shall see nothing save the gangway of your own vessel,” Genny twittered in agitation. “Away with you.”

The door opened. “Miss Lisle, I warned you not to excite her,” the nurse declared, pushing past them to grasp her patient’s wrist. She consulted the watch affixed to her pinafore as she felt the rapid pulse. “You’ll give your aunt a setback.”

Genny eyed her niece in reproof. “That man is not Captain Goode.”

Napoleon grimaced. “Now she believes me.”

“Hey, Steve. How’s tricks?”

Steve shook hands with a grey-haired man, his equal in height but twice as broad. “Hello, Joe. Enjoying retirement?”

“Sure, I am,” Joe said around his cigar. “I’m a big hit with the ladies in my condominium.”

Steve laughed. “Thanks for tearing yourself away to oversee this project.”

“That’s all right. If it had been anybody but the squirt, I’d have told them to jam it in their ear. But I could never say no to that kid.”

When Joe looked at Faustina admiringly, Steve said, “You remember Miss Pemberley? She was a guest at the Farm several years ago.”

“Oh, yeah. Resting up from an accident, weren’t you?”

She nodded. “I needed a quiet place to recuperate, and Rene and Lorraine were kind enough to have me.”

“How anyone could rest up with all that racket, I’ll never know. Give me the city any day. But you’re looking swell. Working for us now?”

“No, Miss Pemberley works for the U.N.C.L.E.,” Steve said.

Joe blanched and ran a finger around his collar. “Gee. Didn’t know you became a cop. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” She looked around, then said in a stage whisper, “But keep it under your hat. I’m here undercover.”

“Oh, sure, sure. I won’t tell a soul.”

Faustina smiled. “I think I’ll go do something secretarial to keep up appearances. Nice seeing you again, Mr. Doyle.”

“Likewise.”

“Relax, Joe,” Steve said when Faustina had left the makeshift office. He sat on the edge of the desk. “I should think you’ve outlasted any statutes of limitations by now.”

“True, but cops still give me the jitters. Even ones that look like that.” Joe returned to his chair and chewed on the end of his cigar holder. “Say, why are they here, anyway?”

“For the same reason we are.”

“Thierry said somebody’d been casing the joint. Maybe even tried to polish off the old lady.”

“You don’t look convinced.”

“Well, I guess this kind of swag is up somebody’s alley. Personally I was always more interested in sparklers than antiques.”

“So no itching fingers, then?”

“Not even a tingle.”

Steve’s gaze roamed the papers spread across the desk. “How’s the job going so far?”

“It’s a heckuva tight schedule, but the boys are keeping up okay.”

“I would hope so, at the rate we’re paying them. Let me see the list of men for tomorrow.”

Joe handed him a clipboard, his dark, down-turned eyes glinting. “Any of those names ring a bell?” 

Steve surveyed the list and pointed to one. “Mark Lourday does.”

Joe’s cigar drooped. “I wanted to surprise you.”

Steve gave Joe a pat on the shoulder. “It’s the name Thierry used when he’d work with you on a job site.”

“Gee, those were happy days,” Joe said, leaning back in his chair. “Me showing him how to install a safe. And his pop teaching him how to break into it.”

“Purely as an academic exercise.”

“Sure. After all, it pays to know what you’re up against. The squirt was a natural too. It’s too bad he didn’t get to go into the family business.”

“De Grissac is the family business. Besides the straight and narrow hasn’t done poorly by you.”

“I guess not. Just once, though, I wanted to see the kid show his stuff. When he dragged me up here, I kinda hoped it was about more than chasing a skirt.”

“It is.” Steve laid the clipboard on the desk and stood. “Thierry’s in love all right, and you know what a Farrand will do for his lady.” 

“Just like his pop. Well, Ol’ Joe won’t give his game away, whatever it is.” 

“You let me know as soon as he arrives tomorrow.”

Joe pointed his cigar at the door. “What about the cops? This undercover stuff is okay for them, but they don’t take kindly to other people muscling in on their turf.”

“Yes, they might misunderstand, mightn’t they? Well, pass the word discreetly, Joe, and I’ll handle UNCLE.”

Steve left the office and made his way onto the terrace. He found Faustina, Lisle, and Napoleon in dispirited conversation. “No soap?” he asked.

Napoleon’s lips twisted. “Miss Truitt was not in a receptive mood.”

“Her nurse forbid any more visitors today,” Lisle added. “She said the excitement would be too much for her.”

“What now?”

“I plan to try again tomorrow.” Napoleon held up a large brown envelope. “In the meantime, we’ll start investigating the ladies who participate in this round robin letter.”

“I suppose the three of us can poke around the newer sections of the house.” Steve shrugged. “I don’t know if it’ll do any good, but at least we know what we’re looking for.”

Lisle took Napoleon’s arm. “While you start, I’ll see Mr. Solo down to his boat.”

Napoleon grimaced. “Do you think we could walk? Another ride in that cart, and I’ll need traction myself.”

“Since Genny’s sedated, we might as well take the truck.”

“You have a truck?”

“An old Model A.” She laughed at his expression of cautious optimism. “You probably won’t find the ride any smoother.”

“I’ll take that risk.”

When they had disappeared down the hill, Faustina asked, “What did Joe say?”

“That Thierry summoned him from Florida to manage this job.” Steve lit a cigarette. “As for its urgency, he figures _cherchez la femme.”_

“That’s it?”

“Yes. But if we give the word, he’s ready and willing to help.”

She watched Steve casually smoke his cigarette, his right hand in his pocket. “I wish Miss Truitt had told Napoleon about that diary,” she said eventually. “Thrush could try for it again tonight, and an UNCLE security team would only risk Thierry’s exposure.”

“If this afternoon proves as fruitless as I expect, I’ll have Joe put a few men on night shift. They’ll keep an eye out.” His cheek dented. “Maybe you and I should stay here too, in case there’s trouble. I’m sure we could while away the long hours in some manner or other.”

“What about my pheasant?”

“Ivan can bring it over. He loves a helicopter ride.”

“As much as I hate to disappoint him, I have an assignment tonight. Illya needs another red herring.”

Steve raised one softly angled brow. “What he needs is a hobby. ”

“Don’t worry. You and I are still having dinner together.”

He wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “You know, kitten, sometimes I get the funny idea that you’re using me.”

“Steve,” she sighed, patting his hand. “The feeling’s mutual.”


	12. Chapter 12

“A pirate costume?”

“Yes, sir, or rather the outfit of a seventeenth century seafaring gentleman.” Napoleon nudged the conference table, wheeling a file around to his Chief. “I think with the right clothes, Miss Truitt can be convinced that I am her, ah, Jolly Captain.”

“I’d like to say this is one of your more unusual ideas, Mr. Solo, but that would hardly be accurate.” Waverly considered the photographs contained in the file. “Very well, I’ll authorize it. But stick to the bargain racks, if you can.”

“I know a young lady who works in a costume shop on Broadway. She’s promised to give me the employee discount.” Napoleon pushed back his chair. “In fact, I’m supposed to meet her in twenty minutes for a fitting, so unless there’s something else…?”

“No, you’re dismissed.” As Napoleon reached the doors, Waverly added, “Just be sure this getup of yours is ready by tomorrow. You have a performance to give.”

“It’ll be ready. If necessary, she’s prepared to work all night.”

Mr. Waverly shook his head as the doors whispered shut behind his top agent. “Mr. Kuryakin, you’re in charge of investigating this Jolyon Goode Society. Section III is compiling all the information we have on them. I want every founding member investigated thoroughly. You take anyone here in New York. Coordinate with our branch offices about the rest.”

“Will Miss Pemberley be assisting me?” Illya asked.

“No, she’s to continue to work on Mr. Emerson.”

Illya frowned. “Surely his part in this is finished.”

“We can’t keep him from overseeing their security project. He has de Grissac’s interests to protect.”

“I am not certain that their interests coincide with ours.”

Waverly’s shaggy brows lifted. “That is precisely why Miss Pemberley’s assignment will stay as it is. She’s taking Emerson to the Mask Club tonight.” He tapped a stack of papers. “If we kept more such dinners in house, perhaps expenses would go down.”

“Your mask, Miss Pemberley, and one for your guest.” The young woman in a black mask and revealing multicolored bodice set two boxes on the counter.

Faustina opened the larger box and carefully removed an ornate half mask. The sculpted leather was adorned with plumes of purple, red, and gold. 

“Lovely,” Steve said as he tied the ribbons behind her head. He took a plain black mask from the smaller box. “Why is yours nicer than mine?”

“Because I’m a member.”

A set of large paneled doors gave access to the club’s main room. Posed beside them was a blond Harlequine, a racier—and deadlier—version of a Meissen figure. 

Steve greeted her with his shark-like grin. “Remind me to put in an application.”

“Your mask, sir,” she prompted, tapping his shoulder gently with her slapstick. A stronger blow would have rendered him unconscious. 

“Oh, yes. Thanks.” Steve slipped it on and ran a reparative hand over his sleek hair. 

“Enjoy your evening.” With a wave of her stick, and some technological sleight of hand, she activated the doors. They swung slowly open to reveal a colonnade bordering a Venetian piazza. Patrons in evening dress and fanciful masks radiated youthful energy as they perused the buffet, conversed at tables, and danced to the mod sounds of the house band.

Steve and Faustina stepped through the doors. “Let’s sit there,” he said. He pointed to the gondolas floating on a trompe l’oeil canal, where couples lounged on brocade cushions. 

“Not yet. Our mission is this way.” She steered him to the right along the colonnade.

“You know,” he said as he opened an etched glass door marked Waverly’s, “all work and no play makes Steve a very dull boy.”

“You should really publish a book of all these mottos of yours,” she replied, evoking his laughter.

The bar, with its dark woodwork and walls lined in pale ruched fabric, was a cool, elegant retreat from the exuberant carnival atmosphere of the piazza. Faustina led them to a table near the small dance floor. A jazz band dressed in motley jackets and gatto masks played on a dais in the corner. 

Steve pulled out a chair. Faustina sat and unclasped her fur cape. He reached around, his fingers caressing hers, then slid the fur from her shoulders. Beneath it, she wore a strapless black minidress of Chantilly lace. Its nude lining gave the illusion of transparency, its exquisite cut the certainty of an expensive label. 

He leaned down and brushed his lips against her ear. “How was that?”

“Perfect. Did he see?”

“Yes. If he keeps pummeling his bow fiddle like that, he’ll break a string.” He took the seat beside her. “Let’s ignore the boyfriend for a while. You know, other than one brief letter, I haven’t heard anything about your new job. How goes it so far?”

“Marvelous. Two colleagues want me to go to dinner, and two others want me to go to Jericho.”

His cheek dented. “Who else have you offended?”

“The first woman assigned to Section II. I don’t really blame her. My promotion stole some of her thunder. She might have been less resentful if my bona fides were as impressive as hers.”

“Phi Beta UNCLE?”

“Something like that.” She sighed, then admitted, “I only passed training with a special dispensation.”

“Really? What for?”

“Explosives and demolition.” Behind the mask, her eyes shone with self-mocking amusement. “I had a little trouble with that course.”

“Kitten,” Steve said sympathetically and squeezed her hand. “Personally I didn’t think you’d last two years at this.” He laughed when she bristled. “No, not because you couldn’t hack it. I figured you’d get restless and move on.”

She smiled. “So did I. Maybe I would have, if I hadn’t been transferred so often. He doesn’t look it, but Un—, I mean Waverly, is really a crafty old fox.”

“Well, at the risk of sounding like an aged relative, I’m proud of you.” His dark blue eyes grew serious, although his tone remained light. “I’m not the only one who’d feel that way.”

“I appreciate your sentiment, Steve. As for certain other parties, I stopped caring about that a long time ago.” She rose. “Order me a Montrachet ‘55, will you? I need to powder my nose, or at least the tip of it.”

The wine was waiting for her when she returned. Steve exhaled a column of smoke and took a drink of his bourbon. “You owe me a story about Solo. I assume he’s one of your dinner invitations.”

“Yes. I’ve resisted the temptation so far, but I may have to accept. There’s now a betting pool going about how long I will hold out. Waverly doesn’t like it.”

“He ordered you to go to dinner with him?”

“Not in so many words, but he wants the gossip squashed.” She sniffed her wine, then took a sip. “If I’m going to fall off the wagon, he’d be the perfect one to catch me. A simple, sophisticated affair, with neither one of us expecting too much from the other.”

“You don’t sound enthusiastic.”

“I know. That worries me a little.”

“Not saving yourself for someone?”

“God, I hope not.”

“If you need to reassure yourself, my door is always open.” Steve stood as the band’s current number drew to a close. “Shall we?”

They moved to the dance floor. As Faustina stepped into Steve’s arms, Rafe Jameson began to play a familiar refrain on his saxophone.

“Bewitched, bothered, and bewildered am I,” Steve crooned beside her ear.

“You did this.”

“Guilty as charged, your honor. A little something for the boyfriend over there. When this case wraps up, you should put the poor guy out of his misery.”

“With him, I’m afraid it wouldn’t be as simple.” She looked up at Steve through her lashes. “You know what I’m like.”

He nodded. “I still have a lump where you parted my hair with that ashtray.”

“I can be a jealous cat,” she acknowledged with a grin, “though I make up for it in other ways. Besides, romantic attachments between agents are officially frowned on.”

“You mean in exotic locales surrounded by danger and intrigue, no agents have ever hated themselves in the morning?”

“Oh, they do. But if there’s to be more than one morning, they keep it quiet and clandestine. In this case, I suspect I’d be too demonstrative for that.”

“Well, I still say you should give the boyfriend—and yourself—a break.” He glanced at Illya, who wore a black turtleneck under his colorful Gattos jacket. “If it’s the love bites you’re concerned about, he already has the appropriate wardrobe.”

She chuckled. “When this file is closed, the only thing he’ll want to do is strangle me”—her lips twisted ruefully—“again.” 

“What?”

“Nevermind. Come on. Let’s put another nail in my coffin.”

When they were seated, Steve took a long velvet box from inside his dinner jacket. Faustina squealed as he lifted the gold and diamond bracelet from the satin lining. He fastened it to her wrist and kissed her pulse before he released her. She held out her arm, giving the dais a better view.

The bassline was more aggressive for the rest of the number. When the song concluded, Illya nodded to Rafe and the band, then picked up his instrument. Grasping the upper bout, he rested the other side on his hip and stepped offstage.

As he headed for a side door, Steve waved. “Good evening. We enjoyed your set.”

“Thank you,” Illya said stiffly as he paused beside their table.

“You do this sort of thing often?”

“When time permits.”

“Join us for a drink,” Faustina said. “Your date too.”

“Yes, introduce us.” Steve gestured to the instrument.

“To my bass?” Illya asked, resting it on its endpin.

“Of course. I thought all musicians named their instruments.”

Faustina’s grey eyes danced. “That’s likely apocryphal.” 

“I had a secretary once with a figure like that,” Steve continued, massaging the groove in his mustache. “What was her name?” 

“Jayne?” Faustina offered. Illya’s lips flexed, then resumed their hard line.

Steve slapped the tabletop. “Marigold. That was it. You could call it Marigold.”

“No,” Illya snapped, hefting his bass again, “thank you. Now, if you will excuse me, it is late. I have an early start tomorrow.”

“Getting a jump on the wily grandmothers of the pirate club? Good idea.” Steve smiled complacently. “I knew it wouldn’t be someone inside my company. De Grissac employees are very loyal.”

Illya’s gaze slid from Faustina’s couture dress to the diamonds that sparkled on her wrist. “Yes, I understand the fringe benefits are extremely generous.” The cool blue eyes behind the feline mask shone with a furious resolve. “Good night.” He picked up his bass and stalked away. 

“Dum dum da dum.” Faustina intoned Chopin’s Funeral March as the side door shut behind him. “There goes one colleague who won’t be asking me to dinner.”

“I’ve a hunch you’re wrong about that.” Steve raised his glass. “To turtlenecks. May they be needed after all.”


	13. Chapter 13

“It’s about time,” Joe said around his cigar holder as Steve and Faustina entered his makeshift office.

“We had to wait out the hail,” Steve replied, setting his hat on the desk. “Any trouble last night?”

Joe dragged his gaze from the leather boots that climbed past Faustina’s knees and disappeared under the hem of her burgundy coat dress. “Nope. You’d have to be a fool to try it in that storm.”

“At least that’s one benefit of this nasty weather.” 

“Something came up this morning, though.” Joe picked up a half sheet of cardstock from the cluttered desk. “We caught one of our guys poking around the old house. He’s clean as far as we know, but maybe somebody got to him.”

Faustina took the personnel record. “I’ll call it in,” she said, scanning the information. “Then I’ll have a chat with this Abe Miller.”

“Come on, Joe,” Steve said. “Let’s give the lady some privacy.” He led Joe into the hall and shut the office door.

Joe looked up and down the corridor, then reached beneath his jacket. The elegant revolver he unveiled had an ivory handle and a long, engraved barrel.

Steve examined the pistol before dropping it into his pocket. “Where is he?”

Joe winked. “Where do you think?”

Steve followed him to the Art Deco sitting room. The panel installation was complete, and the covers removed from the furniture. Curtains of peacock blue velvet were drawn back from the tall windows which formed three sides of the octagon. Beneath a row of colorful transoms, the paneled glass gave a view of the wet lawns and distant woods, still buffeted by gusty winds.

Two figures stood before the windows. Lisle, ever stylish in a shirt dress with a wide cinch belt and matching buckled shoes, wept quietly into a man’s handkerchief. The owner of the striped cotton turned anxious brown eyes to the doorway and dropped his fingers from the waves of hair sweeping back from his high forehead. “Steve,” he cried with relief. He gave Lisle’s arm a quick squeeze, then crossed the room to shake Steve’s hand. 

Steve looked his godson over. “You don’t look any worse for the experience.”

A debonair smile split Thierry’s narrow face. “I’m so healthy, it’s criminal.”

Lisle hurried toward them, a picture of distress. “Oh, Mr. Emerson, can’t you make him see reason? He insists he won’t go with you.”

“What’s this?” Steve asked, his softly angled brows aloft.

Thierry’s shoulders flexed. “Flight is always an admission of guilt.”

Across the room, Joe chuckled. “Where have I heard that before?”

“I think I’d better speak to Thierry alone,” Steve said gravely.

“Thank you,” Lisle breathed, hazel eyes shining tearfully, and turned to face Thierry. She kissed him briefly, then rushed from the room, the handkerchief pressed to her lips. 

With a shake of his head, Joe left as well, shutting the door behind them. 

Thierry watched her leave, his gaze both worshipful and resigned. His hand returned to his hair. “It’s no use your trying to change my mind either,” he informed Steve. “I got myself into this. I must get myself out.”

Steve offered him a cigarette. “I wouldn’t dream of it. In fact, I think we can turn all this to our advantage.”

“I figured you might.” Thierry accepted a light and inhaled thoughtfully. “What about UNCLE?”

Steve grinned. “Opportunity knocks once; your friends knock all the time.”

“As far as UNCLE knows, this Abe Miller is a model citizen,” Heather said, her voice issuing from the communicator. “How did he seem to you?”

“The same,” Faustina replied in vexation. “He claimed he was searching for equipment that had been deployed to the wrong team. The foreman confirmed his story.”

“So not a Thrushie, then. Too bad. You might finally have made some headway.” She laughed at the pointed retort. “I don’t recognize the language, but I can guess the meaning. Stay safe out there. Meteorology says we’re in for a rough day.”

Faustina closed the communicator and slipped it into her pocket, then stared down at the desktop, her eyes keeping pace with the weather. The voice that called out suddenly from the intercom made her start. “Miss Pemberley, please join me in the sitting room,” Steve said, “and bring your pad.”

She pressed a button on the panel and replied dulcetly, “Right away, Mr. Emerson.” After a quick check of the blueprints tacked to the wall, she snatched the steno pad from the desk and strode from the office. 

She arrived at the octagonal room with an accusation on her lips, but schooled her features when she saw Steve was not alone. A man stood at the windows, silhouetted against the harsh gray light, his back to them. 

“My secretary, Miss Pemberley,” Steve said, addressing the other man. “Miss Pemberley, I believe you know Mark Lourday.”

The younger man turned from the windows. His brown eyes shone with bonhomous affection and, as they traveled from her tall-crowned fedora to her low-heeled stocking boots, the embers of an old attraction. “Field work looks good on you,” he said, his voice smooth and soft at the edges. “Father said it would be a shame to bury you in the Translation department.” 

“We all have to start somewhere,” Faustina replied. She tossed her pad onto the sofa and rushed toward him. Thierry’s welcoming arms, open to embrace her, were ignored as she patted him down roughly.

“Can’t keep your hands off me? I wish you’d felt this way five years ago,” he said, then yelped. “Are you an UNCLE agent or an osteopath?”

“I suppose it’s too late to worry if you’ve been bugged,” she said, straightening. “Where’s the Rossi?”

Thierry shrugged. “Thrush has it.”

_“Merde,”_ she muttered fiercely. “If we’re lucky, some bright little birdie hasn’t yet input all this into their computers. When they do, it’s sure to pop out a name.” Her grey eyes held his. “Lupin.”

He spread upturned hands. “I’m rather counting on your organization to prevent that. Why else would I risk that signature, if not to draw UNCLE’s attention?”

“You’ve taken far too many risks for my tastes.” A wry sympathy eased her intense gaze. She reached up and pushed a curl of light brown hair off his forehead. “I thought you’d be as dark as Steve when you turned up.”

“I was for a while. Unfortunately, spirit gum doesn’t last long.”

“So Thrush knows exactly what you look like,” she purred. Grabbing his strong, straight nose, she twisted it hard and launched into a colorful diatribe about his stupidity.

With a howl of protest, Thierry pried away her hand. Then he grabbed her by the waist and swung her in a circle. “Now I know you were really worried about me,” he laughed and planted a smacking kiss on her forehead.

“Of course, I was,” she said as he set her back on her feet, “but there’s more at stake.”

“I know it.” A grin crinkled the corners of his eyes. “What do you think of Lisle?”

She prodded his chest sharply. “Not your love life,” she said, resuming her vigorous commentary. Her words trailed off under the weight of his absurdly hangdog expression. 

Thierry smiled ruefully. “There’s nothing you can say that I haven’t already said to myself. The plan should have worked perfectly. It was the worst sort of luck that I crossed paths with actual villains.”

“First time in company history,” Steve interjected from the RadioBar. 

“That’s just what these tricks should have been,” Faustina declared. “History.”

Steve approached and handed them each a martini glass. Faustina sniffed the cerulean cocktail. “Isn’t it a little early for this?” 

“Is it?” Steve replied innocently. “I thought you might appreciate a Blue-Eyed Russian.”

Thierry, looking from Faustina’s flashing eyes to Steve’s smug amusement, said, “How goes the treasure hunt, if I might ask?”

“Lousy.” Faustina tasted her drink, then wrinkled her nose and returned the glass to Steve. “You know all about the diary, of course.”

“Yes. Mr. Morgan is quite anxious to get his hands on it.”

“Mister? No old lady about?”

“If there is, she’s even better at disguises than Lupin,” he said, raising his cocktail at the thought. “No, it’s only Morgan and a few heavies on loan from Thrush Central. He hopes this job will impress them into a promotion, but the boys upstairs grow impatient with his lack of progress.”

“How did he learn about the treasure?” Steve asked.

“I’ve no idea. I’m only a humble thief, thankfully one more useful to him alive.”

“So far.” Faustina took the communicator from her pocket. “You’re in UNCLE’s custody now. Once you’ve been questioned, we can round up Morgan, and this will be over.”

Thierry placed his glass on the grand piano, a half-moon of figured maple, and sat on the bench. “I’m afraid it won’t be that simple,” he said, softly playing Chopin’s Second Nocturne.

“Why not?”

“For one thing, I don’t know where to find him.”

“What?”

“I’m confined to my room at his hideaway and blindfolded for travel. I’m afraid I’ll be of little help there.”

She regarded him suspiciously. “We have specialists who can figure it out.”

“More importantly,” he said, his fingers dancing over the keys to the ornamented melody, ”I have no intention of abandoning Lisle and her aunt to their fates.”

“She’d have the full strength of UNCLE for protection.” Faustina rested her elbow on the piano and looked down at him. “Just convince her to say the word.”

“Perhaps, if I thought that was the best course of action.”

“You don’t?”

Thierry shook his head. “Lisle won’t leave while her aunt is in danger. And where Lisle is, there shall I be also. We’re not going to live like sitting ducks waiting for Thrush to strike.”

“The three of you could be relocated to a safe house.”

“Genny Truitt would never consent to that.” He closed his eyes briefly, savoring the crescendoing modulation. “Morgan is a small-time operator, if I ever met one. Central is a different story. They’re poised to take over this job, and I dislike their severance package.”

“All the more reason to accept UNCLE’s protection.”

“And have Thrush put a price on my head? Oh, no. I value it too highly.”

“You really don’t have a choice, you know. There’s the little matter of the Gardiner Trust robbery.”

Thierry completed the run of 32nd notes, then abandoned the Nocturne. “You’d charge me with that?” he asked in the ensuing silence.

“My mission is protect de Grissac and Rene,” she said, “by any means necessary.”

“Then we both desire the same ends.” He returned his fingers to the keys and began Le Vie en Rose for four hands. “I just prefer different means.”

“Such as?”

He did not answer, but hopped to the edge of the bench as he continued to play. With a sigh, Faustina perched beside him and joined the duet. “Well?”

“I return to Morgan with the diary.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Well, I certainly can’t go back without it.” Thierry gave a gratified exhalation as they successfully crossed hands. “Small time or not, Morgan’s a desperate character. This is his chance to rise in Thrush, and he knows there won’t be another. Remember what he did to Genny when she was no longer useful.”

“So it wasn’t an accident. We thought not. But that’s all the more reason to take you in.”

He shook his head. “The clock is running down. If UNCLE does this by the book, you’ll find Central in charge and their computers busy connecting the dots. If I go back with the diary, I can give you Morgan and the treasure before that happens.”

“As compelling as that sounds, there’s still a slight problem. We don’t have the diary yet.”

“But you will. Lisle told me of your plan.” His face drew close to hers as he reached across the keyboard. “Apparently I’m not the only one who resorts to tricks.”

They continued their duet, hands touching and separating, arms entwining, primo and secondo exchanging prominence as the melody passed between them. 

“Wonderful,” Steve said when they had finished. “You two haven’t lost your rapport.”

Thierry took Faustina’s hands in his. “Well, there it is. You know what I want to do. It means my future and my happiness.”

“I have to talk to my Chief,” she said slowly.

“Alexander Waverly? I’m sure he’ll agree with me. Father says he’s a very sensible man.”

“He is.” She withdrew one hand and patted his cheek. “So when he tells me to shoot you with a sleep dart and drag you to Headquarters, enjoy the nap.”


	14. Chapter 14

Illya swallowed the last bite of his nutted cheese sandwich and, with a signal to the counter girl, ordered a second plate of whole wheat doughnuts.

“Where do you put it all, young man?”

Illya turned his head to the elderly lady on the stool to his left. Her faded blue eyes twinkled at him kindly. The stern line of his brows relaxed, and he favored her with a slight smile. 

“My grandson eats like that,” she continued. “No sooner does Ethel get the groceries into her kitchen than he’s gobbled up half of them.”

Illya leaned closer. “Sometimes it is that way with my own groceries.”

She chirped in amusement, a faint blush tinting her wrinkled cheeks. Then she searched his face and, patting his hand, said, “You seem troubled.” 

Illya’s gaze cooled, and he straightened, gently sliding his fingers from under hers.

She gave a little sigh. “My Arnold, rest his soul, would always say, ‘For goodness sakes, Irene, strangers don’t want other folks nosing into their business.’” Her finger wagged in imitation of her late husband. “But I say, ‘A trouble shared is a trouble halved.’”

“That depends with whom one shares it.” Illya accepted the plate of doughnuts from the counter girl and handed her 15 cents. “In my line of work, people are not always what they seem.” 

Irene took out her coin purse and paid for her split pea soup. “It was the same way with Peter Gunn. Ethel and I watched him every Monday.” A quaver of anticipation entered her voice. “Are you a detective too?”

He shook his head curtly. When her face crumpled, he added, “Insurance investigator.”

“Oh, I see what you mean. Kindly old ladies who report their jewels stolen can’t always be trusted.”

“I am paid to be skeptical.”

Irene tapped the modest string of pearls around her neck. “These are a family heirloom.” She pointed to her matching earrings. “These are from A&S.”

He glanced at them from the corner of his eye. “I rather suspect the opposite.”

Her breathless twitter returned. “You must be very good at your job.”

“I am paid to be that as well.” 

She ate a few spoonfuls of soup in thoughtful silence. “I suppose it must be hard if you happen to like the lady. I think I’d feel very disappointed, maybe even betrayed.”

“I never allow my emotions to interfere with my work,” he declared before washing down a bite of doughnut with coffee. “Disappointments are rare when one is prepared for the worst.” 

She shook her head. “You’re too young to be so cynical.”

“Not cynical. Pragmatic.”

A two-tone alarm interrupted them. Irene gave a start. “What on earth?”

Illya reached inside his jacket and muffled his communicator. “I must call my office.” He stood up, looking at his unfinished doughnuts with regret.

Irene set her handbag on his empty stool. “Don’t worry. I won’t let them clear your plate.”

His smile was small but genuine and reached into his eyes. Irene’s cheeks were bright pink as she turned back to her soup. 

Inside the phone booth, Illya set his back to the folding glass doors and activated his communicator. “Kuryakin.”

“Mr. Waverly is waiting for your report,” Heather informed him, her knitting needles clicking rhythmically in the background. “He says you’ve had time to interview half of Brooklyn by now.”

“It was another dead end. Mrs. Krebbs suffers from senility and dwells as much in the past as Genny Truitt. Neither she nor the widowed daughter who cares for her are working for Thrush.”

“Sounds like you’re having as much luck as Faustina. Her lead turned out to be a dud too.” Heather chuckled. “If you’re going to fail, you might as well look good doing it.”

“What does that mean?”

“That I wish I could monitor this station decked out like a Vogue spread.”

Illya frowned. “I take it that Emerson has provided Miss Pemberley with another expensive ensemble.”

“The man has taste, I’ll say that much for him. Faustina came in this morning looking like Doris Day and left as Brigitte Bardot.” Heather sighed. “When I traded the friendly skies for espionage, I thought the wardrobe would be better. I hate baby blue. No offense.”

Illya’s eyes narrowed. “UNCLE is a security organization, not a house of couture,” he replied sternly. “Your dress code reflects the serious nature of our mission.”

“Says the man who wears a uniform by choice. When I want fashion advice, I’ll get it from someone who makes better use of his expense account.” The click of her needles ceased. “If that concludes your report, I’ll pass it along to Mr. Waverly.”

“A question before you go, McNabb. No offense, as you put it, but would you trade UNCLE for a lavish clothing allowance and”—his hand tightened around the communicator—“other fringe benefits?”

“I don’t think so,” she replied. “Then again, I haven’t been asked.”

“Wait, do you mean—?” he said sharply, but the channel had already closed.

Illya scowled at the back wall of the phone booth. “Open Channel D.”

“What’s up, pal o’ mine?” Napoleon responded jauntily.

“Have you seen Faustina yet?”

“No. I haven’t. I’m on my way to the island now.”

“Getting a late start, aren’t you?”

“I had to wait for my costume to be finished.”

“I thought your friend was going to work all night.”

“She, ah, intended to, but we went to my place for dinner, and then the storms rolled in.”

“I can guess the rest,” Illya said, rolling his eyes. “When you see Faustina, take note of her outfit.”

“I always do.”

“I believe Emerson has presented her with another expensive gift.”

“From my conversation with her yesterday, it sounded like these clothes are going right back to Emerson when this Affair is over.”

“She told you that?”

“In a roundabout way.”

Illya made a scoffing exhalation. “She is very good at talking around a subject.”

“You know what I think?” Napoleon said. “I think you’re jealous.”

Illya’s face went white, then red. “Do not be ridiculous.” 

“Me? You’re the one fixated on her wardrobe. And now it makes perfect sense.” He tsked. “The green-eyed monster doth mock the meat it feeds on.”

Illya pulled out his handkerchief and wiped the back of his neck. “My only concern is the integrity of this mission. I do not wish to see it compromised by a man like Emerson.”

“You can’t fool me, partner,” Napoleon said smugly. “You’re annoyed because everyone else is playing dress-up, while you’re stuck in your monochromatic rut. Frankly, it’s very petty.”

Illya’s flush subsided. “That would be envy, not jealousy, blockhead. I am afflicted with neither.”

“Petty and pedantic.”

“Just keep an eye on Faustina and Emerson,” Illya said. He plucked a speck from his mohair sleeve. “And for your information, today I am wearing maroon.”

“That’s nothing to brag about,” Napoleon said and signed off.

Illya closed his communicator, muttering darkly to himself in Russian. Then he counted to ten twice and exited the phone booth. 

Irene and his doughnuts were still at the counter. As he reclaimed his stool, she peered at him, sighing sympathetically. “More pearls?”

His lips flexed. “A diamond bracelet.”

She took a pair of neat white gloves from her handbag and slipped them on. “Well, I hope you find it. Do you have any ideas?”

“Oh, I know exactly where to look.”

“Good. I imagine there’s some sort of reward for its recovery.”

“Not in this case.”

She patted his shoulder. “Try not to assume the worst of this lady, whoever she is. Hardness doesn’t become you.”

Illya’s smile was gentle, but it did not reach his eyes. “As I said, I never allow my emotions to interfere with my work.”

Mercer Street was in an uproar. The storms that lashed the five boroughs overnight had departed in the morning with a barrage of hail, and now lingered offshore, battering the city with gusty winds. In the resulting delay of business, twice the number of trucks vied for access to SoHo’s streets, anxious to complete their pickups and deliveries in record time. 

A cacophony of honks, clucks, and multilingual aspersions engulfed Illya as he walked out of the parking garage. Farther down the block, two trucks with crumpled fenders and smoking engines obstructed the road. The altercation between their irate drivers was rapidly progressing into a fistfight, as a crowd of spectators egged on their favorites and placed bets among themselves. Poultry cages, dislodged by the accident, lay scattered across the wet cobblestones, and fugitive chickens roamed the street in confusion. 

Ignoring a matter that was clearly outside UNCLE’s chartered responsibilities, Illya strode briskly through the chaos, his determined gaze searching out the number of each building he passed. Eventually he paused before a dingy façade of cast iron, twice as wide as its neighbors. The aromas of ginger, vanilla, and sesame wafted through the open door of the Kim Li Bakery, which occupied the ground floor. No signage identified the four stories rising above it.

Illya mounted the shallow loading platform and halted. A giant of a man in a white butcher’s apron stood within the double doorway, observing the mayhem with a look of mild curiosity. His right forearm rested across his broad chest, the shirtsleeve turned back, exposing his corded muscles. The large right hand gripped his other bicep. Below those curved fingers, his left arm ended abruptly at the roll of denim. His entire frame, from the top of his dark curly hair to the toes of his bare feet, was ominously spattered with crimson.

“Pardon me,” Illya said.

The dark eyes swung downward, their mild curiosity unaltered. “You from the city?” he rumbled in a mellow bass.

Illya’s gaze flickered over the blood-red spots. “What if I am?”

A bland smile split the dark bushy beard. “Then I’ll let you in,” he replied, methodically cracking the knuckles of his remaining hand.

“Actually, I am a friend of Faustina,” Illya ventured.

The giant looked him over. “Right. She said you’d be coming by.” He stepped to one side, allowing passage. 

“Chickens,” piped an excited voice. A tiny figure darted past the giant’s legs, headed for the street. 

As Illya prepared to intervene, the giant lunged forward with a speed and agility that rivaled his own. The powerful right arm swung in an arc, scooping up the little girl and depositing her on his hip, as he rumbled a few words in a Chinese dialect that was neither Mandarin nor Cantonese.

The little girl squirmed within the gentle hold. “Chickens, Hank,” she cried in protest, beating tiny fists against his broad shoulder. With a sudden change of tactic, she went completely limp, but the giant was prepared for this stratagem and tightened his grip accordingly. 

The little girl straightened her drooping neck and glared at her captor. “I want one.”

“What you want is a good spanking,” Hank replied placidly. He stepped back into the building, pointing his half-arm at Illya. “Shut those, will ya?”

Illya followed them into a dimly lit corridor, lined with cracked plaster and flaking paint, and closed the heavy double doors behind him. Mercer’s din receded. “A chicken would not make a good pet,” he said.

The little girl received his comment with a look of disdain. “Not for me. For Cheddar.” 

Hank slowly shook his head. “What would that cat do with a chicken, Yi-Lan? It’s not big enough yet to catch rats.”

“Cheddar will practice,” Yi-Lan declared. She growled and clawed the air like a tiger.

“That cat’ll get pecked, and you’ll get fired. Then maybe Faustina will pay me to feed it instead.”

Heavy black pigtails, tied with bows of yellow yarn, swung to and fro as she tossed her head, and her piping voice muttered angrily in the unidentified Sinitic dialect. 

Hank’s chuckle was like a roll of distant thunder. “Tough talk, little one.” He lowered her to the floor and shooed her toward the side door of the bakery. “Come back when you can make good on it.”

Yi-Lan stuck out her tongue at him and ran through the doorway. “Mama, Hank will not let me have a chicken.”

Hank’s dark eyes returned to Illya. “You’ll need her key,” he said, picking up the thread of their conversation. His right hand dug in his pants pocket. 

“Hank, you down there?” The muffled call echoed from the elevator shaft beside them.

“Yup,” Hank hollered in response.

“Hold on. I’m coming.”

The ancient machinery groaned to life, and the freight elevator began its slow descent. After a few jerking attempts at alignment, the car halted at the ground floor.

A young man, as skinny and fair as Hank was broad and dark, pulled open the inner and outer gates, then hauled a long textile cylinder into the corridor. “It’s finally finished,” he said excitedly. As he struggled closer, he observed Hank’s spattered frame. “You’re still working on that piece?”

Hank shrugged. “I’m not satisfied with it yet.”

The young man set down his creation proudly. The ICBM stretched up over seven feet, so that even Hank was forced to tilt his head to view the nose cap. It was fashioned entirely of fabric scraps and other found objects. “Isn’t it a beauty?” the artist said. “I think it’s the best thing I’ve done yet.”

Hank stroked his beard as he contemplated the sculpture. “I agree.”

The young man beamed. “I wanted to make a statement about the military-industrial complex.” He looked to Illya for affirmation.

“Or possibly a good bed bolster,” Illya said.

Hank coughed. The young man gasped. “Whoa, man. You’re right.” He waved an upright hand through the air in front of him. “I can see it clear as day. A gigantic bed. The sheets, a map of the world. Helen in green body paint, like the Statue of Liberty. And every twenty minutes, she makes love to this.” He hefted the missile off the floor. “It’ll be far out.”

He lurched back into the elevator, shutting the rusty gates behind him. “Helen, baby,” he yelled as the cab ascended, “I’ve got an idea for your next performance.” Her response was too muffled to understand.

“Not much call for architects around here,” Hank remarked casually.

Illya turned to find a key in Hank’s extended hand. His knitted brows lifted in comprehension. “Some artists work in paint or textiles,” he said, taking the key from the large, red-streaked palm. “I work in wood and wallboard.”

Hank’s hand returned to his beard. “Used to have a guy here who worked in meat. Glad he moved out.”

Illya slipped the key into his breast pocket as his eyes searched the wall around the elevator. “There is no call button?”

“Nope.”

“Could we yell for Mr. ICBM?”

Hank shook his head. “He and Helen are probably…rehearsing by now.”

Illya looked at the dark, narrow staircase with distaste. “How tall is each story?”

“Around 14 feet.” 

“She would live on the top floor,” Illya muttered.

“Bring back the key when you’re done,” Hank said as Illya walked past him. 

Illya acknowledged the request with a curt nod and began his long climb.

As his footfalls receded, a young woman came through the side door of the bakery. Her straight black hair, pulled neatly away from her face, was worn high at the crown with a fringe of bangs that fell to her eyebrows. “Lunch,” she said and held out a wax paper packet.

The mild curiosity returned to Hank’s dark eyes. “What is it?”

“Chicken salad. Very fresh.” 

He bent down, chuckling, and kissed her cheek.

“Wasn’t that Kuryakin?” she murmured.

“Yup.” He straightened and gestured to the sandwich. “Hold on to that for a minute. I gotta make a call.”


End file.
